James Blob terminates the next few days
James Blob knocked on the dark mahogany door and pushed it open.
M looked up from his game of Candy Crush with a look of mild relief. “Ah, 007,” he barked. “Thank God. This game really sucks you in. Heavens, look at the time.”
Blob shrugged and took a cigarette out of the silver case he kept in his breast pocket.
It was the job, and there was no-one better at the job than Blob, one of just an elite handful of agents in the SA State Security Agency to be rated double-O: licensed to kill time.
God knows, he’d killed plenty. He could still remember every hour he’d killed. Those memories never went away, no matter how hard you drank or how far you ran.
They came to him at night as he lay awake sweating through the sheets: the hours he’d killed in committee meetings and team-building exercises; one brutal hour that had died hard when he’d babysat the directorgeneral’s dachshund.
He shut his eyes and took a slow drag on the cigarette. Noname counterfeit, confiscated this morning and sent up for analysis. The EFF were a few bucks poorer since yesterday.
“First things first, 007,” said M. “As you know, the president appointed Mahlodi Muofhe as head of the domestic branch here at SSA last month, which means that I’m no longer M.”
“You’re being replaced, sir?” asked Blob. “No, no, just my code name. I’ve told them that giving him the code name ‘MM’ isn’t the most cunning spy-craft I’ve ever seen but they’re insisting, and that means I have to change my letter because our 40-something spies have started making awful rap-themed jokes about ‘M and MM’ and our 20-something interns don’t know who Eminem is, and that’s depressing everyone.”
Blob tapped ash into M’s ashtray, a large ceramic ear inscribed with the greeting: We’re Always Listening. With Regards From Mark Zuckerberg.
“You have something for me, sir?” “I do,” said M.
“I’m taking you off Operation Dunderball with immediate effect.” Blob raised an eyebrow.
A week ago the agency had been briefed on a mysterious millionaire, Dr No Seriously I Really Am a Doctor, aka Iqbal Survé, who had made a dramatic threat.
During a raid on his secret lair – a grim place in which henchtypists produced mind-altering goop they called “newspapers” – Survé claimed the visit by the Financial Services Conduct Authority was a “fishing expedition” to “get information that we have on Pravin Gordhan, on the president and on various ministers ... because my reporters are about to publish it this weekend”.
Now the weekend, like most of the money Survé had been given by the Public Investment Corporation, had come and gone with nothing to show for it.
“We’ll keep watching him,” said M, “if only for entertainment, but you’re needed on a much more pressing matter.”
He slid a file across the desk. “The minister is claiming we dropped the ball on the xenophobic violence, and the press has got hold of some intradepartmental letters.”
Blob pulled out a
City Press. Monday.
“I have not received any tangible plan and improvement of clipping. product strategy to ensure that we timeously detect, analyse and disseminate actionable intelligence to the client and to other stakeholders ...”
Blob stubbed out his cigarette in Mark Zuckerberg’s ear.
“Why is City Press quoting a junior sales rep at a dude-bro tech start-up in an article about national intelligence?”
“That,” said M, “is the Minister of State Security.”
“Damn,” said Blob and chuckled softly.
“It gets worse,” said M. “I assume you read the report claiming she wanted to bug private citizens without the goahead from a judge?”
Blob nodded and lit another cigarette.
“Well, someone’s got to pay, and the press is speculating that the president will have to fire either her or someone like Mahlodi Muofhe.”
“But the president doesn’t fire anyone, ever,” said Blob. “Precisely,” said M.
“And when he doesn’t fire anyone in this case, the press will be all over it. Which is why I need you to...”
“Make the SA media disappear.”
M guffawed. “Oh lord no, 007! Facebook and internet freebie culture are wiping out the press faster than you ever could!”
“Then why am I here?” asked Blob.
“You’re here to do what you do best: kill time.”
“How long do you need?” “A week? Zuma’s at the Zondo commission next week so that’ll take care of the news cycle for the rest of October and November, but if you could make the rest of this week disappear, the president would be very grateful.”
Blob stood up.
He wasn’t sure how he’d terminate the next few days, but he’d figure it out. God help him, he always did.
‘Then why am I here?’ ‘You’re here to do what you do best: kill time’