Over the past twenty-five years, Rutherford oftentimes found himself keenly missing that initial friendship and its great imbalance. It was with this missing feeling that he picked up his phone’s handset and dialled Emil Coetzee’s number at The Organisation. He would make a joke about this latest sighting, and Emil Coetzee would surely find something funny in being reported missing when in fact he was sitting in his office, as happy as every man in the savannah had a right to be.

On the other end of the line, a voice with a slight tremor informed Rutherford that Emil Coetzee had resigned from work on the day of the ceasefire and had not returned. The reticence of the voice proved to Rutherford that there was more to the story than was being disclosed, and so he informed the voice that he was with the SIU, and that he wanted to know everything about Emil Coetzee’s resignation that the voice knew.

‘The girl who does the cleaning found a note under his desk just this morning. The note read, “Will not be back. Find new head.” It was dated 21 December and initialled EC. The note was definitely written in his hand,’ the voice informed Rutherford.

As he listened, Rutherford absent-mindedly placed the handset in the crook of his neck and sharpened an HB pencil in the rotary sharpener mounted on his desk. He was of the strongly held opinion that only a savage would start chomping away at an unsharpened pencil. ‘So when the man did not show up for work yesterday, where the bloody hell did you all think he was?’ he demanded.

‘Well since the boy … his son, Everleigh … there have been quite a few days missed,’ the tremulous voice informed him.

Rutherford hung up the phone without a thank-you or a goodbye because he felt that The Organisation did not deserve any gratitude for obviously mishandling the whole Emil Coetzee affair – whatever it was. As soon as Emil Coetzee had not arrived at work as expected, they should have looked for him; and after not finding him, they should have immediately notified the SIU. That was the protocol for dealing with the absences of high-level officials. But, of course, The Organisation, always the renegade, always imagining itself to be a law unto itself and not just another branch of the government, had seen it fit to do things its own way.

Rutherford turned in his chair and looked through the glass enclosure of his office at the twenty men under his direct command. All of them were keeping themselves busy with various tasks, but none of them were sitting comfortably at their desks because they were always prepared for something to happen. Rutherford was proud of what he saw. There were many signs of being ill at ease: legs pumping up and down, chairs swivelling in comforting arcs, fingers periodically running through hair. He had done this. He had created this atmosphere.

It was how the SIU liked its operatives – agitated, on edge, and more than a little uncertain. This was a brilliant tactic because it made every intelligence operative eager to demonstrate his allegiance and commitment. Anyone who entertained the thought of going against the grain of the unit did not entertain it for too long, because they were never allowed to feel as if they could get away with anything.