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is not the whole truth, is it?”

“I don’t know what . . .”

“How long have you been a so-called farmer, Mr. Mpayipheli?”

“Two years.”

“And what was your profession before you began farming?”

The state prosecutor, the serious woman with the gold-rimmed spectacles, stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Mpayipheli’s work history is irrelevant to the case before the court.”

“Your Honor, the background of the witness is not only relevant to his reliability as a witness, but also to his behavior at the filling station. The defense has serious doubts about Mr. Mpayipheli’s version of the events.”

“I shall allow you to continue,” said the judge, a middle-aged white man with a double chin and a red complexion. “Answer the question, Mr. Mpayipheli.”

“What was your profession before you went farming?” repeated the advocate.

“I was a gofer at a motorbike retailer.”

“For how long?”

“Two years.”

“And before that?”

His heart began to race. He knew he must not hesitate, nor look unsure.

“I was a bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard.”

“Yes.”

“Let us go one step further back, Mr. Mpayipheli, before we return to your answer. What did you do before you, as you say, became a bodyguard?”

Where had the man obtained this information? “I was a soldier.”

“A soldier.”

He did not answer. He felt hot in his suit and tie. He felt sweat trickle down his back.

The Indian shuffled documents on the table before him and came up with a few sheets of paper. He walked to the state prosecutor and gave her a copy. He repeated the process with the judge and placed one before Thobela.

“Mr. Mpayipheli, would it be accurate to say you tend towards euphemism?”

“Objection, Your Honor, the defense is intimidating the witness and the direction of questioning is irrelevant.” She had glanced at the document and began to look uncomfortable. Her voice had reached a higher note.

“Overruled. Proceed.”

“Mr. Mpayipheli, you and I can play evasion games all day but I have too much respect for this court to allow that. Let me help you. I have here a newspaper report”—he waved the document in the air—“that states, and I quote: ‘Mpayipheli, a former Umkhonto We Sizwe soldier who received specialist training in Russia and the former East Germany, was connected until recently to a drugs syndicate on the Cape Flats . . .’ End of quote. The article refers to a certain Thobela Mpayipheli who was wanted by the authorities two years ago in connection with the disappearance of, and I quote once more, ‘government intelligence of a sensitive nature.’ ”

Just before the prosecutor leapt up, she glanced fiercely at Thobela, as if he had betrayed her. “Your Honor, I must protest. The witness is not on trial here . . .”

“Mr. Singh, are you going somewhere with this argument?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor. I ask for just a moment of the court’s patience.”

“Proceed.”

“Is that what this newspaper article is referring to, Mr. Mpayipheli?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me, I can’t hear you.”

“Yes.” Louder.

“Mr. Mpayipheli, I put it to you that your version of the events at the filling station is just as evasive and euphemistic as your description of your background.”

“That is . . .”

“You are a highly trained military man, schooled in the military arts, urban terrorism and guerrilla warfare . . .”

“I object, Your Honor—that is not a question.”

“Overruled. Let the man finish, madam.”

She sat down, shaking her head, with a deep frown behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. “As it pleases the court,” she said, but her tone said otherwise.

“And a ‘bodyguard’ for the drug syndicate in the Cape for two years. A bodyguard. That is not what the newspapers say . . .”

The state prosecutor stood up, but the judge pre-empted her: “Mr. Singh, you are testing the patience of the court. If you wish to lead evidence, please await your turn.”

“My sincere apologies, Your Honor, but it is an affront to the