Bushfire

By Rudy Nato da Mata

One man has the power to plunge the world into endless conflict ...

Name:George W Bush

Status:President of the United States
of America

Background:White-knuckle drunk. Alleged
cocaine user. Ex- Governor of
Texas

Enemies:The Al-Qaeda. Saddam Hussein.
Osama bin Laden.

Allegiance:Skull & Bones. The Brotherhood.

Agenda: New World Order.

Aim: To colonise resource-rich
countries and pave the way for
the first African-American
president.

Endgame:World domination through planned
chaos and US sponsored terrorism.

How do Nelson Mandela, Oprah Winfrey, Barack Obama and Michael Jackson connect to the plot of a secret society that controls world events?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rudy Nato da Mata
• Release date: Sep 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465732057

Rudy Nato da Mata

Born in Durban, South Africa, Rudy Nato da Mata travelled to Switzerland, where he wrote his first novel: Bushfire. The sequel, African Cyclops, is currently being edited for publication. He is also developing movie script he wrote titled The Last Rain Queen. Bushfire, a thriller about conspiracy theories has just reached the marketplace.

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BUSHFIRE

Rudy Nato da Mata

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Published by:

Rudy Nato da Mata at Kindle

Copyright (c) 2011 by Rudy Nato da Mata

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This is a work of fiction and should be construed as nothing else. Conspiracy theories form the background of this novel and have been extensively researched with a view to finding a unified theory in the interests of storytelling. Where so-called fact converges with red-hot fiction it is up to the reader to research further to arrive at his or her own conclusions.

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This book is dedicated to the memory and fantastic imagination of

Pauline Margaret Clark-da Mata.

The First Chronicle – 2004

Johannesburg, South Africa

Chapter One

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I entered the apartment in a foul mood, and walked straight past Theo, who was stretched out on the couch in the lounge, a whiskey in one hand, the newspaper in the other and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Are you okay? he asked.

I clicked my tongue and sat down next to him.

Someone tried to kill me this morning! I blurted.

He gasped and sat up. What happened? he asked, immediately enfolding me in his arms.

I walked into a shop in Rosebank this morning to try on a dress. I was handed a cubicle number, which the shop attendant apparently mistook for someone else’s. Moments later, I emerged to find a woman lying in a pool of blood outside the cubicle that I learnt was meant to have been mine, I stuttered. Whoever shot her through the head obviously thought I was in there.

Theo drew me closer. Suffocated by the intimacy, I got up immediately to pour drinks.

Why would anyone try to kill you? Theo sounded craftily dubious.

It must have something to do with the subpoena served on me yesterday. The prosecution want me to testify in the Hazel Crane murder trial, I lamented.

I thought the case had been thrown out of court. The doubtful tone in his voice intensified.

This is a different case, I remarked, concerning Hazel Crane’s assassination.

Will you testify? Theo sounded anxious.

What choice do I have? If that woman didn’t walk into the wrong cubicle, I’d probably be dead right now.

Theo took our glasses and replenished them. What now?

I’m off to Switzerland as planned. He handed my glass back to me. Which reminds me: I need to answer David’s emails before I leave. I took off my rings and hurried to the bathroom.

What emails?

About Nostradamus, from what I can make out.

You mean you haven’t read them yet?

Can’t you see how busy I am? It’s like this every day, I complained.

How difficult can it be to respond? Does he want you to write something?

I’m not sure. I only read part of the emails which had something to do with Nostradamus and quatrains that circulated the Internet after September 11 ….

So why aren’t you interested?

I’m sticking with celebrities and the print media, I retorted. Fred Maxwell is an international celebrity, which is why I’m flying to Zurich to meet with him.

I stepped into the bedroom, unbuckling my belt, struggling to shake off thoughts of Rosebank.

I watched Theo walk off, well aware that he was lying about his use of cocaine.

The telephone rang.

Miss Susy-Noid? Phineas Mazibugo, declared a husky African male.

Hello. What can I do for you?

Thabo Ndlovu told me to call.

I’m afraid I don’t know the name, I replied.

I have a story for you!

Ah … then you should be calling my editor, Leonard Browning, on a completely different number, I replied, wondering where he’d got my home number from.

He won’t run the story if I use the regular channels, which is why I am calling you. I need the help of an insider, the stranger said.

I’m as regular a channel as they come, Mr Mazibugo. I advise you to follow correct procedures if you want to get your story into print. I’m only the gossip columnist.

I tried talking to you this morning, he interrupted, but you drove off before I could introduce myself.

Really – where was that?

In the Cape to Cairo car park, at the South African Trade Centre, the caller replied. I’m the midget you thought was begging for money.

Good Lord! Sorry about that; bad timing on your part, I apologised lamely. Can I give you Leonard Browning’s number at the office?

I was told you would be … difficult, he lashed out.

Who said that?

Thabo Ndlovu, he replied.

I’d heard Theo mention the name before, only, I couldn’t recall the context.

Thabo Ndlovu is a medicine man, an animal diviner and a prophet of note. And I am his initiate, he pronounced. You might not have heard of him before, but he has known about you for several years now.

Why are you calling me? I interrupted.

So the truth can be told, he said firmly.

I sat on the couch armrest. I suggest you speak plainly if it’s help you want from me, Mr Mazibugo. What truth are you referring to?

He inhaled audibly. Two days ago, a plane crashed in Limpopo, where eleven soldiers are said to have died.

"Are said to have died?"

There was a crash, but it wasn’t military.

Then what was it?

I’ll leave that for you to find out. Early yesterday a dolphin was found more than six hundred kilometres from the sea, in Johannesburg, on the slope of a worked-out goldmine. Andalusite crystals were extracted from its digestive tract, he said guardedly. These stones are precious crystals used in space-age technology.

I have a plane to catch in less than four hours, I said.

Beware of the man with the naked smile that you will encounter on your trip to Europe. When he rises from your bed the morning after, your life will turn completely upside down, the stranger said in a booming voice.

Who told you about my trip to Europe? I said, thoroughly shocked.

I was sent to warn you of terrible things to come. Unless you reprogramme your way of thinking there’s no way you can be saved.

What would I be saving myself from? I frowned.

You were born to bridge a moment in time that soon will alter the course of history – cosmic history! he reverberated.

I’m only away for twenty-four hours, I informed, dismissively.

I heard the story on the news today. That will not be the last attempt on your life. I will contact you on your return from Europe, he promised and before I could interject, cradled the phone.

Intrigued by the expression on my face Theo asked, Who was that?

Thabo Ndlovu’s initiate, I said, watching his face light up.

Phineas Mazibugo? What did he want?

You know this midget? I glowered.

Everybody knows him, Theo replied.

I most certainly do not. Did you tell him to call me?

Despite his denial, I disbelieved him, as witch doctors were the type of company Theo kept these days.

Thabo is a bird shaman who played guardian to the Harrington family for many years, he explained. Thabo Ndlovu saved David’s life, I’m told.

I sat on the edge of the bath to run my water. Theo came up behind me and stood me up, roping his arms around my waist. I stiffened. Lord … these paw-paws! He caressed my breasts, lowering his hands to my thighs which he tickled. I had no idea why he was doing this, as he knew how much I disliked being touched. We’d had long discussions about how foreplay highlighted my sexual insecurities, yet it never seemed to stop him. While I knew it was cruel to impose my sexual complexes onto Theo, I’d made a point of being upfront about my frigidity from the word go.

While I had stopped complaining about foreplay, I drew the line when it came to full-blown sex. Penetration was crossing the line, the voices inside my head continually told me.

Theo kissed my neck and ground his crotch against me. He rubbed his stubble down the side of my cheek, his grip, steadily firming on my behind. With his jeans crumpled around his feet, I searched reluctantly for his weapon of mass destruction and quivered on contact.

Vee will be here any minute, I whispered, intent on squelching his over-ripe desires. Ignoring me, he bunched his fingers and wriggled them between my thighs, searching for my vagina, which I clamped with both hands, refusing him entry.

Just then the doorbell rang and I pulled away grateful for Veronica’s timing.

I thought you told her to come in half an hour. Theo belted up and sulked toward the door. Relieved, I slipped into the bath and sank slowly below the bubbles.

Veronica exclaimed her presence from the entrance, Sweetie, you know what I do for a living, so scrub those tits fast, or I’ll be late for my next appointment!

She pushed Theo out of the way and minced toward the bathroom like a queen on ephedrine. She kicked open the door and peered inside, arms akimbo, her red stilettos tilted, as she flashed a glamorous smile.

You look divine! I complimented.

You already have a ride to the airport, woman. Anything else you want – ask your man. What’s this I heard about you on the radio?

I flinched. You’re not going to believe what happened to me this morning.

Someone took a shot at you and killed the wrong bitch! I hope it was Prada you were trying on! she mocked.

I’m convinced it was the Israeli mafia, I whispered. I’ve been subpoenaed to testify in the Hazel Crane murder trial. I overheard the shop attendant tell the police that the attacker had an accent, I said as Theo handed two glasses to Vee. She was sitting on the toilet with the cover down.

Interesting you should say that, because I spoke to one of your neighbours coming up the stairs right now. He sounded Israeli. He must have seen me visit you in the past, because we got chatting and he asked if I’d be willing to have a drink with him and his friend. Then a little more candidly he invited me to partake in a threesome with him and his friend called Moshe.

Someone propositioned you for sex in my building – who? I gasped.

His name’s Zavi, she replied. He seemed to know what I do for a living, which made me think he’d spoken to you. I didn’t bother explaining the difference between a Tantric sex instructor and a common whore, and said goodbye, continuing upstairs. She giggled wickedly.

Forty-five minutes later we were barrelling down the freeway in her white Porsche. Destination: Johannesburg International Airport.

What’s the matter? I lit two cigarettes and handed her one. How’s Ernie, by the way?

Veronica wound down the window, Rich, fat and as neurotic as hell. Now there’s someone who can’t control his sex drive. But the son … now he’s a different story.

You’ve met Ernie’s son?

The father forced me to. Since coyness had no place in Veronica’s personality, I knew there was more to her reply than she was letting on. The father’s a dog, gums and all! No class and fuckin’ useless at sex. He has a crush on me, and I haven’t had the heart to hurt him, until now. Last week the fool came to class and threw the Taoist philosophy in my face, telling me that he’d put my house on the market and wanted me out – immediately! Can you believe it – after trusting the bastard by leaving the title deeds in his name?

Vee fumbled with the steering wheel.

Listen ... I don’t have a problem with him taking back the house. It’s his to start with. However, I do have a major problem with the way he’s gone about it, treating me like a tramp. How am I supposed to maintain continuity with my students without fair warning? she grumbled.

Having served time as a hooker on South African streets, Vee had gone to America as an escort to a flashy tycoon but deserted him there for the bright lights and the American lifestyle, staying on illegally to finish her education, putting herself through high school and university by working nights, lap dancing in sleazy strip joints where she had sold her body on the quiet.

As a bipolar sufferer, I had no idea how she had managed her condition in the US without me there. Even though we aren’t blood-related, we consider ourselves sisters. Somewhere along the line she had stumbled on the art of cultivating sexual energy, which to date, seemed to have influenced her life positively. With a university degree behind her, she had returned to South Africa, I’d presumed to settle down. It didn’t take me long to realise that she had no intention of finding regular work, or of giving up on prostitution, even though she called herself a Tantric sex instructor these days.

Despite never discussing her unexpected return to South Africa, I was convinced it had something to do with 9/11. But sensing the subject disturbed her immensely I made a point never to talk about it unless she raised it herself. When, finally, she came home the country girl had become a City Slicker: an undisputed creature of high desire.

The son’s eighteen, as ugly as the father, but with a dick of death you could land a plane on! Veronica guffawed.

What did you do to the poor boy? I nudged playfully.

I got him to drive into the back of my Porsche then made him take me out for dinner, where I gave him a note for Daddy, demanding payment for damages, or face legal action. I then proceeded to fuck the brains out of him – and like I do with all my students – refused him climax.

Theo’s having a nervous breakdown. I changed the subject.

What makes you say that? She glanced over.

He’s behaving very strange these days. He actually believes he draws power from painting African masks, which he uses to destroy people, he tells me. Not to mention that he fraternises with witch doctors and claims he hears voices in the Zeus walls. I’m talking about the nightclub in downtown Johannesburg. He thinks the walls talk to him, literally, I emphasised, shaking my head.

It’s the cocaine, darling! Did he tell you what the walls say?

I never ask. I’m positive he’s using again. I sighed listlessly.

Based on?

Well, he’s twisting issues by lying big time. He’s even become obsessed with the octopus in the nightclub’s aquarium, I scoffed.

"And that makes you think he’s lying and snorting cocaine? Are you sure you aren’t using girl, because you sound like you’re on something stronger than coffee! she ridiculed. Have you talked to Theo about it?"

I shook my head.

Veronica slowed down and turned off the engine once she found parking at the airport.

Tell me more about you and Ernie? I coaxed.

She clicked her tongue and puffed on her cigarette. I knew that trouble was on the way a long time ago. Veronica sighed. The relationship with Ernie fell apart for the same reason that it started … because of what happened in America. She nestled into the corner and smiled like a vamp with shades on.

You didn’t know Ernie back then. America was before his time, I reminded.

That’s right, but I met him because of what happened there, she stressed. Someone sent Ernie to find me.

My brow arched. Why would someone in America send Ernie to find you in Africa of all places?

To make sure I do not spill the beans about the most powerful man in the world. I’m talking about George W Bush, she whispered hoarsely.

You mean the president of the world’s only super-power, I stated.

He’s a drunk besotted with power! She clicked her tongue, smoke from her cigarette belly dancing to the sound of our voices.

Will you stop talking in riddles and tell me what happened in America, I coaxed.

A silver Toyota Land Cruiser passed in front of us grabbing Veronica’s attention. Good heavens! It’s that guy from your block of flats!

I craned my neck to see to whom she was referring.

It’s Zavi ... and the driver’s probably Moshe, the friend he was talking about.

What are they doing at the airport? I wondered suspiciously.

Veronica started the car to give chase. Pretty soon it was clear that she’d either made a mistake, or they had left the airport. Irritated, she found a parking space closer to the main terminal this time.

Where was I? Oh yes, the Bush family. I presume you know that Junior’s background was in oil and politics, right? She slipped seamlessly back into her manic mindset as though I had not interrupted her. Junior formed a part of my psychology thesis at varsity, and because history was my second major, I combined both subjects for my psych thesis to help penetrate the mind of the world’s most powerful man. And since Junior suffers from First-Son Syndrome – that was the angle I focused on.

What in heaven’s name is that? I reached for her cigarette and took a puff.

I’m told that victims of First-Son Syndrome spend their lives working out their father’s complexes instead of coming to terms with themselves. Junior had a well-publicised booze problem, she continued. Some researchers go as far as claiming that he smoked weed; others insist he snorted cocaine before the evangelical awakening, which many believe was a shameless hoax. Billy Graham is meant to have brought him to his hour of reckoning, but I believe that was a public relations stunt geared toward duping the electorate.

Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet, I cautioned.

Granted … but some conspiracy theorists claim CNN has video footage of a joint Drug Enforcement Agency and CIA sting of George W and his brother, Jeb, collecting two kilos of cocaine from a known drug smuggler at the airport at Mena: a small town in western Arkansas, which back in the eighties, had a population of under six thousand; yet it was the busiest airport in America for trafficking contraband – Colombian coke, to be precise!

Who did they buy the drugs from? I asked, deeply suspicious.

There’s a record on film of the done deal, and the supplier happened to be a drug smuggling pilot named Barry Seal.

Ever receptive to gossip about famous people, I goaded with a gesture.

"Well, let me start with Barry Seal, who, by age fifteen knew how to fly an aircraft despite not having a licence. In 1972, Trans World Airlines hired and fired him for smuggling explosives into Mexico for the CIA-trained anti-Cuban movement. The boy was acquitted and in ’77 began smuggling marijuana instead. Before long, Seal was trafficking cocaine. He once boasted about making $1.5 million in a single flight.

Seal based himself at the Intermountain Regional Airport at Mena, Arkansas, where he earned between $50 and $100 million in approximately a decade. But drugs weren’t all he was involved in. He also helped set up a CIA-sponsored project where South American pilots were trained at Nella to fight the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. In 1984 Congress cut funding to the Nicaraguan resistance, the Contras. Back then George Bush senior was Ronald Reagan’s Vice President. That was also the year Barry Seal had turned state informant, Vee explained.

Why did he do that? I asked, curiously.

He was indicted in Florida for smuggling Quaaludes and for laundering drug money, Veronica answered. In March ’84, Seal struck a deal with the Justice Department and the Drug Enforcement Agency, which George Bush senior was heading at the time. Seal agreed to act as an informant and became a CIA operative, building a case against the Medellin Cartel – the very people he’d previously worked for.

Going under in bewilderment, I asked, Why did America fund the Contras?

The aim was for the Contras to generate their own capital by trafficking drugs in exchange for weapons, Vee said.

I don’t understand! What on earth did Reagan and Bush senior want with cocaine? I gasped.

Crack cocaine, Vee clarified. The profits from drug sales were channelled into their Nicaraguan cause, disrupting the lives of millions of African-American youth in the process.

Reagan knew about this?

"So did Bush Senior. They were in this together. As business improved, Barry Seal bought himself a C123k, which he fitted with cameras to document the Nicaraguan government officials’ involvement in drug trafficking, as part of his deal as an undercover agent for Miami’s Justice Department’s Drug Enforcement Agency. However, someone released photographs to the media of the plane being loaded with drugs by Nicaraguan officials. In no time the word was out that Barry Seal had snitched on the Medellin Cartel. Needless to say, a contract of $500 000 was put on his head.

Former CIA operative, Terry Reed’s story, as told by author, John Cummings, in the book titled ‘Compromised’, describes the 1985 joint sting between the CIA and DEA, of which Reed was a part. The agencies had got wind of Texans flying into Mena to buy a small quantity of cocaine, and wanted to record the bust on camera so the footage could be used as evidence in court. The cocaine buyers were meant to be ‘unknown’ to the operatives’. But when the aircraft landed the operatives quickly realised that the plane belonged to the Bush family, and were further astounded when George W and his brother, Jeb, got off the aircraft to collect the cocaine from Barry Seal; this, while cameras were rolling.

I refuse to believe this! I repudiated, looking away angrily.

It’s true! When Barry Seal was indicted in 1984, the FBI and CIA were not interested in cutting him a deal, so he went over their heads and met with two members of Vice President George Bush senior’s task force, who put him in touch with the Justice Department’s Drug Enforcement Administration in Miami. They struck a deal with him to act undercover. Lots happened in-between, but things hotted up for Seal when the court case got underway. Quickly, he realised that he needed protection and the video footage of the Vice President’s boys was the best protection he could find.

Why isn’t this public knowledge if what you’re saying is true? I objected.

"You tell me! Once the news of his boy’s gargantuan faux pas filtered back to the DEA and the Vice President, who was heading the crime-fighting organisation at the time, someone leaked photographs that resulted in Barry Seal being gunned down in the car park of the Salvation Army’s rehab centre at Baton Rouge. The general view was that the Medellin Cartel, which had an arrangement with the Sandinistas to use one of their airfields at Managua to transport narcotics, had avenged its betrayal by killing Seal. Others believe the CIA – convinced it would look like retaliation by the Medellin Cartel – had gunned down Seal themselves, because he knew too much about the Vice President’s boys and was threatening with blackmail. The Judge sentenced Seal to sleep at the Salvation Army every night and forbade him to carry a weapon, or to be in the company of people who did. Seal ignored the court order and hired his own security. On the evening Barry Seal was murdered, he was waiting in the car for his security to arrive, but it didn’t show.

Seal was found dead with the private telephone number of George W Bush in the boot of his car. Now please tell me what a known drug felon was doing with Bush’s private telephone number in his possession, or why George W was seen flying Barry Seal’s aeroplane after his death? Furthermore, George Bush Senior went to great lengths to eradicate the Medellin Cartel, which resulted in the deaths of Medellin founders, Pablo Escobar and Jorge Ochoa. Co-founder, Carlos Lender – affiliated to Manuel Noriega – was sentenced to life imprisonment, but he mysteriously disappeared from the US prison system.

I stretched my legs in the limited space in front of me, my ears hot from disbelief.

What happened to the drugs once they reached America? I asked incredulously.

It fell into the hands of the mafia, which handled the countrywide distribution of crack cocaine. However, it couldn’t have happened without the governor of Arkansas turning a blind eye. Fortunately for them the governor at the time was former CIA operative, William Jefferson Clinton, Veronica explained.

Bill Clinton?

The one and only; Clinton allegedly mediated between the CIA and the mafia, she explained. Through the ADFA, Bill Clinton is said to have financed Park-O-Meter Inc, in Russellville, Arkansas, to manufacture guns for the Contras.

Are you sure you’re not making this up?

Why would I when it’s true?

What does this have to do with the footage of the drug bust that you claim CNN has in its possession? I asked, perplexed.

She clicked her tongue. They probably destroyed the footage. There’s no way they’re going to air it for obvious reasons. Within minutes of Barry Seal being gunned down the video he carried with him everywhere he went, disappeared.

Have you seen the footage? I asked dubiously.

She shook her head.

Sweetheart, I have a plane to catch. I reached for the door handle, seeing no point in continuing the conversation.

Vee leaned over and pulled the door shut again, giving me one of her wide-eyed glares.

There’s something I’ve never told you. She sat back and smiled, wickedly. There was a guy who booked me for parties of the rich and famous in New York. His name is Steven Sterling, eldest son of one of America’s founding families; a big name at Yale University. Steven dishonoured the family name by behaving pretty much like Junior did in his youth. Both were playboys that lived fast, partied hard, with fathers who employed agents to cover up their tracks.

What did Steven Sterling do to fall out with his family? I asked, looking at my watch again.

He was caught smoking pot on campus. The university expelled him and not long after his family kicked him out as well.

I frowned, For smoking pot?

That’s the official version, she replied. "Steven went on to sell drugs to students on campus, where after, he kicked around for a number of years, romancing the underworld. In the ’80s, he allegedly became involved with Lawrence E King Jr’s child pornography ring, before moving to New York, where he worked the nightclub circuit prior to opening an escort agency. However, behind the scenes, Steven peddled drugs to the New York jet set. That was how he met the ‘Fat Man’: Barry Seal, who at three hundred pounds was the size of a house.

On 13 January 2001, Steven Sterling booked me for a party in Washington, DC. Later, I was surprised to see him board the plane and sit down next to me. He told me he was going to the capital to make a delivery to someone at the White House. Steven thinks the stuff found its way to the president.

"He thinks? Why doesn’t he know for sure?" I challenged.

Veronica laughed as though I was a fool for not grasping the situation.

Steven’s claim to fame was as a drug peddler to the rich and wayward while Junior was at Yale. Five weeks before Barry Seal was gunned down, he invited Steven to share a meal of junk food with him at the Salvation Army at Baton Rouge, where he handed him a briefcase with information for safe-keeping.

What was in the briefcase? I asked, curiously.

The videotape, Vee replied. "There is a longstanding relationship between Ernie’s family in this country, and the Bush family in America, because of oil and natural gas interests. When George learnt that someone else was in Steven’s car on the night the delivery was made to the White House, he arranged to have me followed and later deported me for over-staying my visa. I know for a fact that Junior called Ernie to tell him to keep an eye on me in case I did something unseemly.

Ernie once told me that he tapes all important telephone conversations, Veronica continued. "When I asked him to name the most important person he’d ever spoken to he named the president of the USA. So I immediately knew he had a record of the conversation. One night Ernie asked me to meet him at his office after work so we could go out for dinner. I got there to find his last meeting for the day still in progress. His secretary asked me to wait in his office until he was done. That was when I decided to snoop around, and began by playing back the cassette in the answering machine.

After playing more than a dozen tapes, I found the one of George W Bush, she said, eyes wide with austerity. Bush started out by asking if the telephone line was secure and when Ernie assured him that it was, he proceeded to ask if Ernie could take care of a small matter in South Africa for him. He told him that it concerned a woman who knew something about him that he did not want to become public knowledge with the 2000 elections looming. It was me he was referring to. Ernie agreed to help and a week later, showed up at my door wanting to enrol in my Sex Academy. I suggested that he bring his wife along, but he refused. I now understand why one of my students began behaving like my sugar daddy, buying me a Porsche and a house from which to conduct my classes, in spite of getting no more out of me than any of my other students. Bottom line is – Ernie was sent to keep my mouth shut by the American president, she stressed.

I’d love to do the story, sweetie, but I can only look into it on my return from Zurich. Talk to Sterling in the meantime and see if he’ll be willing to speak with me on the record. But there’s one condition – that he lets me view the Barry Seal videotape first.

No problem. Steven’s dying to get the story out so I’m sure he’ll agree. He doesn’t want to make the same mistake Barry Seal did, which was not to place the evidence in the public domain; as long as you can take the heat after writing the article, she said.

At last, we got out the car and entered the airport terminus, Veronica still babbling at my side. All of a sudden she stepped in front of me and stopped the trolley with panic in her eyes.

What’s the matter? I looked over her shoulder, presuming it was one of her students she was trying to avoid.

Don’t look now, but I just saw the Israeli again, she said, the one from your block of flats, that I saw in the car park. Over my left shoulder … with the silver-grey hair, next to the peroxide blonde, she described.

I looked again. There is no man next to her.

Veronica turned, I could have sworn …

Are you sure you’re not imagining this? Twice now you’ve pointed out someone who isn’t there.

She scanned the crowd, completely flummoxed. I promise. I saw him. He was with the driver of the silver Toyota Land Cruiser, who I’m sure is Moshe.

I said goodbye and walked through the International Departures doorway without looking back. Waiting my turn in the customs queue, I noticed a headline in a newspaper discarded on an empty chair: Mystery Plane Crash.

The article concerned the plane crash that the midget, Phineas Mazibugo, had called me about, the one he claimed had not happened. But here it was big and bold on a reputable front page. Next to it, the story of the dolphin he had alluded to.

I handed my passport to the customs officer and continued reading. It was then that I felt something strange to the right of me. I had no idea what it was, but for some strange reason my hair began to stand on end as though someone was breathing down my neck. Two queues away – looking directly at me – was my dream phantom, who I had dubbed Jenaro. I watched him step out of the queue and move toward the back of the hall where he slipped behind a woman with a hat on and disappeared. I knew my mind was playing tricks on me, as it had been doing so often lately.

I snatched my passport from the customs officer and hurried toward the waiting aircraft.

I apologised to people as I forced my way to the front of the queue, wanting nothing more than to escape to isolation. I next registered what was happening when the flight attendant stood up at the front of the plane and welcomed everyone aboard. I blinked, stunned by the time lapse. At some stage during the safety demonstration I must have dozed off again. I awoke hours later to find that the plane had taken off and a passenger with silver-grey hair was sitting next to me.

I’d obviously missed refreshments, because my neighbour had a packet of peanuts in his hand from which he was offering me. I declined.

Zurich?

I nodded, discouraging conversation.

He extended a hand, Me too. The name’s Zavi Cohen.

I’m not sure how I managed to camouflage my shock, as I let go of his hand and counted to three before clutching my stomach, faking excruciating pain. When I looked up a concerned stewardess was standing over me asking if everything was all right. Instead of answering, I got up and leaned against her and walked slowly toward the front of the aeroplane, crying from a fictitious stomach ache.

Chapter Two

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Zurich is a city of ancient steeple towers and narrow cobbled streets, some dating before the Middle Ages. Despite the city’s mesmerising beauty, I failed to erase the possible threat that Zavi Cohen represented in my life. Was he a member of the Israeli mafia, or was my imagination playing tricks on me?

Alessandro Bagliano, the Italian-Swiss, who met me at the airport, welcomed me with open arms and compliments on my appearance that literally made me squirm.

He and I had met two years before, during his ten-month stay in South Africa where he was researching the last leg of his thesis on African Traditional Medicine. We had sat next to each other at a medical seminar I’d been covering for a woman’s magazine. I recall asking him to explain certain jargon in the press kit. His explanations sparked a conversation that later earned me a cappuccino and a toasted chicken and mayonnaise sandwich. It also put him on my guest list for forthcoming dinner parties. Since Theo and he shared similar interests in African culture and folklore, I invited him to dinner two weeks later so they could meet.

When Leonard Browning, my editor at the Morning Herald, green-lighted the Frederick Maxwell interview in Switzerland, I automatically revived contact with Alessandro, who was now a medical doctor at a Zurich hospital. Tall, spindly and with rather average looks, Alessandro nevertheless struck an imposing figure. Dark, tousled hair, scrunched around his face like granite-chiselled curls, his thick eyebrows converging above his nose like comets colliding in the sky.

At a table for two, Alessandro frisked me with his eyes. Of course, I know Thabo Ndlovu, he bragged.

Who is he?

"Only the most respected sangoma in Africa: A bird shaman, who I interviewed extensively for my thesis while I was in South Africa. Politicians and statesmen consult him all the time because