Free The Death of Rex Nhongo by C.B. George

the bottom of his coffee cup. “Not so much.”
    Iganyana stared at him fixedly until Mandiveyi had no choice but to look up and meet his eye. Then he nodded smartly, bent down to his desk drawer and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “You like to drink,” Iganyana said, for a third time. “It was not a question. I make it my business to know about those who work for me. Do not lie to me again.”
    He poured a large measure into each glass. He slid one across the desk. “It is OK. A man should drink.” He raised his own glass as if in challenge and waited until Mandiveyi did the same. “Cheers,” he said, and downed it. Mandiveyi had taken only a small sip, but the other man was waiting, so he, too, drained his glass. Iganyana poured another two tots and finally sat back, fingering his glass thoughtfully.
    Iganyana began to ask Mandiveyi question after question, though his interest in the answers was cool and affected. It was an obvious tactic—a show of knowledge and, therefore, strength; one that Mandiveyi had used countless times himself. Still, it felt uncomfortable to be on the other side of the game, not least because the very nature of this game required both parties to know it was being played.
    Iganyana asked Mandiveyi about his daughter in form four. Was she preparing well for her O levels? What were her plans for the following year? He said that he had good connections at some of the sixth-form colleges in the city if that would help. He asked about his son, “the cripple.” He expressed sympathy that the boy had to suffer in such a way and admiration for his fortitude. He asked about his wife’s Mercedes, and were they still struggling with the starter because he knew a guy who imported genuine parts at a reasonable price? He asked about Mandiveyi’s mistress in town. Was she happy with her job at Tel One? Did she cause him problems with her demands for money? Did he know that her uncle was an “agitator”? No? This was, Iganyana said, the kind of thing Mandiveyi should know.
    “People fear me,” Iganyana said. “They tell stories that I have this man killed or another one disappear. That is a very small part of my job and not the real reason they are scared. The real reason they fear me is because of what I know. Everything that happens in this country, I know about it. Do you understand what I am saying?”
    “Yes, sir.” These lines were so familiar, but what choice did Mandiveyi have except to play his part? That was the brilliance of the game.
    Iganyana nodded. Then he said, “I believe you have conducted important business on our behalf. Is there anything you would like to tell me about it?”
    Mandiveyi thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, sir.”
    Iganyana stared at him, as if giving him a moment to change his mind, then nodded again. He took a swallow of the whisky. Again, he patted his eyes with his handkerchief, before folding it carefully. Mandiveyi waited. He knew there was more to come.
    “Let me tell you something, Comrade,” Iganyana said. “This business is not concluded. It will not be concluded for a long time. Perhaps it will never be concluded. Your part was just a small one, but I need to know that I can trust you. Do we understand each other?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And can I trust you?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “So there is only one problem.” Iganyana smiled, those curious patches on his face shifting like a Rorschach test. “I don’t trust you. Not at all.” He paused. He poured himself another measure. This time he didn’t offer the bottle. “Phiri tells me you are a man of ambition. Is that so?”
    Mandiveyi considered his options. “I want to do my best, sir,” he said eventually. “I believe if I do that I will progress.”
    “Good answer. Ambition is not a virtue for men like us. He also told me that you are efficient and you are not a talker. Is he right?”
    “He is quite right,” Mandiveyi said.
    “But these are not the