Rutherford’s perusal of his surroundings stopped when his eyes landed on the only man who did not seem agitated or uncertain enough – Joseth Maraire. Joseth was not busying himself the way the other men in the office were, nor did he look ill at ease as he pivoted in too comfortable an arc in his chair. It was obvious to anyone looking at him that he was not doing any work. Rutherford was both irritated and intrigued.

Joseth had not always espoused this attitude. For many years, he had been as nervous as the rest of them and just as eager to please. Even after many jokes had been made about his misspelt first name, he had insisted that everyone call him Joseth and not Maraire. But he had definitely been more at ease and less eager to please after the country had elected its first black president. Now, when Rutherford’s eyes met Joseth’s, Joseth returned his gaze and held it, daring Rutherford to be the one to look away first.

Joseth was a very ambitious man and, even in his agitated days, had never bothered to hide this. It was not in Rutherford’s disposition to quash such ambition; it was best to watch closely and see what actions and compromises such ambition would lead to. As the saying went, keep your friends close – and your enemies up your arse. It was Rutherford’s sudden plan to keep Joseth closer than he had ever kept a black man. With a motion of his sharpened pencil, Rutherford beckoned for Joseth to join him.

Joseth stood up immediately but sauntered over to Rutherford’s office with his hands in his pockets. Everything that Joseth did seemed premeditated. He had stood up immediately so that Rutherford could not reprimand him for insubordination. He walked leisurely to show that while he respected authority, he was still his own man, and, more specifically, to show that although he understood and appreciated that Rutherford was his superior, he was by no means, in turn, Rutherford’s inferior. There was absolutely nothing that could be faulted in Joseth’s actions, except perhaps that he seemed to be too much at ease.

Joseth entered Rutherford’s office and removed his hands from his pockets and folded his arms, waiting. He would not speak until he had been addressed. This, too, was calculated on Joseth’s part. Most African intelligence operatives more often than not became tongue-tied, obsequious caricatures as they shuffled, stammered and shifted before a white superior – growing agitated to the point of becoming almost incomprehensible. Joseth set himself apart from these men by being deferential without fawning.

Rutherford motioned for Joseth to close the door behind him and Joseth did so. All the busy eyes in the office surreptitiously stole glances at the glass enclosure, one eye on the tasks at hand and another eye on whatever fate was about to visit itself upon Joseth.

‘Just got a call,’ Rutherford said. ‘Apparently a man thought to be Emil Coetzee walked into the veld and has not, as yet, walked out of it.’