It never ceased to amaze him how gullible people were. And how greedy. It was impossible to con a truly honest person but it seemed that there were enough dodgy characters out there to make the 419 scam a great business. Sometimes they hit two or three a month. People would literally send them thousands of dollars. But usually one had to play the long con. Emails back and forth, personal details, even family photos. Lately, however, it was getting harder. It seemed that everyone in the world who had access to a computer had received a letter from Valentine or someone similar. In fact there were now large numbers of people out there who practiced 419 baiting. They would enter into communications with Valentine’s people and then string them along for as long as possible, wasting precious time and, quite frankly, eventually leaving you feeling like a bit of an asshole.
So Valentine had decided to branch out. He had decided to expand his business. And this was why he had approached the man who now stood before him. Valentine was not taken in by the man’s veneer of suave sophistication. He had met men like this before. Dangerous men. Their desire to control governed their lives. Power was their drug of choice and they would exercise it whenever possible. And they would do so in an utterly ruthless way. Adi Amin, Robert Mugabe, BJ Vorster. Africa bred these sorts of men in abundance. They were men to be feared. But not necessarily respected. Except, perhaps, in the way that a rabid dog commands respect.
‘So, Valentine, how is our mutual partner doing?’
‘As well as can be expected, mister Zangwa.’
‘Please, my friend, call me, Texas.’
Valentine nodded in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, Texas. As I said, slowly, slowly. He’s not comfortable with the situation yet. Not actually sure that he ever will be but he keeps prying eyes away from the location. He gets rid of the evidence. Does what we need him to do, so as long as your boys keep bringing the stock we’ll keep supplying the product.’
‘And in return? Are you taking care of him?’
‘Yes. Our side of the transaction is very simple. Money.’
‘Perhaps we could save some. Get him to carry out his side of the deal by simply…’ Texas held his hand out in front of his face and formed a fist.
Valentine shook his head. ‘If we threatened this man it could escalate. He has many guns working under him. Professionals. The last thing that we want is a war.’
‘I am not afraid of war.’
‘Of course not, Texas. I merely advise prudence. In the scheme of things the payments are less costly than the alternatives.’
Texas nodded agreement and then started to walk towards the door. The meeting was obviously over. They shook hands and one of the guards showed the Nigerian out.
Texas sipped at the whisky. It had been yet another exceptional evening. A gross of two million and forty thousand Dollars. Capital outlay; eight thousand Dollars worth of alcohol and tobacco. A nett profit of two million and thirty two thousand dollars. A fair cut had to go to the Nigerian and their new partner but he would still be left with an extortionate amount of cash. He had discovered the true wealth of Africa. Over the last six months he had made almost four million Dollars. More than many multinational companies make in a year. He shook his head to himself. Personally he couldn’t understand these soft white men and their strange obsessions. But he was merely a businessman. Not a connoisseur of the goods that were being purveyed.
He walked out through the open double doors onto the balcony that overlooked his park like grounds. The hedges and trees were artfully planted and pruned so as to hide all evidence of the high walls and electric fencing. The late night air was crisp and dry and smelt of Jacaranda and Jasmine. Far in the distance he heard the crackle of small arms fire. Nine millimeters. And then police sirens. The sound of Johannesburg at play. He smiled broadly to himself, God how he loved this country.
He sensed more than heard his chief bodyguard walk into the room behind him. Silent on rubber soled shoes. A buffalo of a man that gave the impression of being almost as wide as he was tall. His dark suit was tailor made, as befit his position in the hierarchy, but his shoes were off-the-shelf. His weapon, however, was state of the art and customized to his exact requirements. A Desert Eagle .50 action express with a seven round magazine, a compensator and molded Pachmayr grips. Eleven inches of firearm that weighed in at over two kilograms fully loaded. In his meaty hands the gargantuan pistol looked normal sized.
The bodyguard cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Ubawo, my father,’ he greeted respectfully. ‘It grows late. Soon it will be morning. I have set the guards and the house is secure apart from this room. You have an early start tomorrow and perhaps it is time to seek sleep.’
The man in the velvet jacket smiled again. ‘Thank you, Dubula,’ he handed his almost empty glass to the huge man. ‘Put some more in this. Help yourself to some as well. And a cigar.’
Dubula returned and handed back a half full glass of whisky. He did not partake of any himself, as the host had known he would not. He never drank. And, as far as he could tell, he never slept either. Or, at least, he had never seen him sleep. ‘So, my friend, we did very well tonight. In one night we make more than all of our other enterprises do for a whole month. What do you think of that?’
Dubula said nothing. His eyes flicked constantly over his masters shoulder to the garden. Scanning. Protecting.
‘I wonder,’ continued Dubula’s master. ‘Is it time to specialize? To hone our operations down. The robberies, the hijacking, the commerce. These are all very labor-intensive enterprises. How many guns do we have working for us at the moment?’
‘It varies. Sixty six, maybe sixty seven.’
‘A lot of men. An army, some would say.’ He laughed again, loudly, his mood expansive. Ebullient. And why shouldn’t it be…he was two million dollars richer than he had been a mere twelve hours earlier. ‘A good day. A good, good day. Be well, my friend.’
As he walked from the room he could feel Dubula’s eyes on him. Hooded. Dark. And fanatically loyal.
***
Less than one-mile away Vusi spread his thin jacket over his sister’s sleeping form. He was thankful that it wasn’t raining. Even when the weather was warm, rain made life very unpleasant.
He was worried about his little sister, Thandi. She had been coughing now for over three weeks. Not violent wracking coughs, simply persistent. Particularly when it rained. Vusi had found a sheet of thick cardboard that afternoon and he had lashed one side of it to the front of their shack with assorted pieces of string. If one pushed very carefully it would open and close. Like a real door. Thandi had clapped when he had finished and that had made him very proud. Because he was the man and the man was meant to do things like provide shelter. And collect food. For the last six months since their mother had died Vusi had provided for his sister. And protected her. They continued to stay in the cardboard and plywood lean-to in the Alexandra Township that they called home. An eight-foot square plot of bare earth squeezed between two other slightly more substantial shacks. A cardboard back wall, plywood roof and cardboard door. It kept out the scorching sun and some of the wind but very little of the rain. In winter, if they lit a small fire, it stayed above freezing.
Vusi did not know it but today was actually his birthday. Today Vusi was eleven years old. His sister, Thandi, had been born two years after him. She was still a child. But Vusi was a man.
He dipped a tin mug into the water bucket that they kept in the corner of the lean-to. This mug, the plastic bucket, two tin plates, two spoons, a small aluminum cooking pot, an old paint tin fire bucket and the clothes that they wore were all that the two siblings owned. Apart from Vusi’s most prized possession; a six-inch long screwdriver, the tip of which had been sharpened to a needle sharp point. Self-protection. He had not used it yet but knew that, when the time came, he would do so without hesitation.
Vusi put a block of wood into the fire tin, more for its meager light source than for its warmth. The dull orange glow gave a feeling of
safety, however transient. He slept fitfully. Waking at every small sound, his yellow and silver screwdriver tight in his hand. Guarding. Protecting. Keeping his little sister safe.
Chapter 3
Only a few moments after Garrett and Manon had greeted each other the children all came back from school. A tidal wave of noise and youthful energy entered the building, sweeping all before it. There were twenty-six of them. By chance equally divided into male and female. All between nine and twelve years old. The majority were black Africans but there was a smattering of White and Indian children as well. They were introduced to Garrett en masse, greeting him together, their combined voices stretching his name so it came out as ‘Gaaretteh’ instead of the more abrupt original.
It was close to lunchtime so three of the oldest girls got to preparing food in the small kitchen upstairs. The rest of the children, obviously working to some sort of roster, did general cleaning. Sweeping and polishing and tidying. Garrett was impressed. The place was as squared away as an army barracks. But with incongruous touches. A bowl of flowers. A brightly colored child’s drawing. A teddy bear.
There was no dining area so each child queued solemnly for their food and then sat on the edge of their bed. When all were seated sister Manon asked Garrett to say grace.
Without thinking he bowed his head and spoke. ‘Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua, quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi,et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus,per Christum Dominum nostrum.’
There was a pause while none of the children moved, unsure of whether the grace was over or not. Garrett scowled to himself in embarrassment and quickly carried on. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’
There was a chorus of Amen’s and a rattling of cutlery as youthful hunger was assuaged as quickly as possible. The meal was a simple one. Stiff maize meal porridge served with a sheshebo, spicy onion and tomato gravy with small pieces of bacon chopped into it. Water to wash it down. Filling, nourishing. Cheap.
After the meal the children washed up and then sat cross-legged on their beds to do homework. Garrett and Manon went to her bedroom upstairs and, with the door open, she sat on her bed and he on the single wicker chair in the corner of the room. Garrett tapped two cigarettes out of his pack of Gauloise, lit both and handed one to Manon. She took it with a smile.
‘How do you know that I still smoke?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘You’re French.’
‘Belgian.’
‘Same difference.’
She laughed. It was a private joke between them. Not funny, but personal.
Garrett pointed to a small tin ashtray on the windowsill. ‘So, Manon, why am I here?’
She took a drag on the Gauloise before she answered. Her lips pink as they wrapped around the white, unfiltered cigarette. The color, virginal, intimate. And when she let the smoke trickle out of her open mouth Garrett had to look away. ‘Children are going missing,’ she said.
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
Another drag of hot smoke. Pout. Release.
‘Orphans are so far down the list of priorities that they don’t exist. They ran away. Decided that they didn’t like it here anymore. Just left.’
‘Could that be true?’
‘Yes. Sometimes. But not often. Three have gone missing from here in the last two months. One, maybe two a year, acceptable. Not only that, there are four other Sunlight Childrens’ homes. The same has happened to them. Almost twenty children in two months.’
‘What about the Pope?’
Manon laughed. ‘You mean the Cardinal.’
‘Whatever. Chief holy dude. Have you spoken to him?’
‘I am a nun, Garrett.’
‘So?’
‘When you were in the army, could a private have gotten permission to see a general to talk about some groundless suspicions?’
Garrett shook his head and lit another cigarette off the remains of the first. He didn’t offer Manon a second. She never smoked two in a row.
‘I’m not sure that I can help. I’m no detective. I’m a…was a soldier. Now I fix fences, carry things, look after game. Live.’
‘I can help.’
‘Sister Manon. Detective extraordinaire.’
‘Be nice.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Anyway, I didn’t mean me, personally. Do you remember Brain Davies?’
Garrett peered intently at the glowing tip of his cigarette. ‘The Dentist, my sergeant in Sierra. Of course.’
‘He lives here. In Johannesburg. He moved here after the war. About three years ago. Owns a big detective agency. Done very well for himself. I spoke to him and he told me to contact you.’
Garrett felt a twist of disappointment. The call had not been solely of Manon’s doing. Would she have called at all if it hadn’t been suggested? And what did it matter? She was a nun. Forbidden. Regardless of his irrepressible feelings for her.
‘I would have called you anyway,’ she continued. ‘I truly believe that you are the only one who can help.’
Relief. A warm balm.
‘So why did he say to call me?’
‘Kindness, I think. He doesn’t believe me. He grew up in an orphanage and said that he ran away all the time. Says I should spend my time helping the ones who stay. Forget the runaways.’
‘He said that?’
‘Sort of. A lot more swear words.’
Garrett laughed. ‘He always had a foul mouth.’
‘He said that I should call you. Said that he would help you look into it. But really, I think that he simply wanted someone else to tell me that I was wrong. Anyway, he never thought that you would actually come.’
‘I need to see him.’
Manon pulled a slip of paper from her trouser pocket. ‘Here. His office address. It’s close. In Sandton City.’
Garrett stood up. ‘As good a place to start.’ He leant forward and kissed Manon on the cheek. ‘Good to see you again, sister.’
Manon smiled. Garrett left the room, closing the door behind him and walking down the stairs. When he came out of the front door the guard was still there. Standing next to his chair, shotgun propped up against the wall. Garrett offered him a cigarette.
‘Siyabonga, thank you.’ He took the cigarette and placed it behind his ear for later. Garrett shook the packet at him and he removed another Gauloise and put it in between his lips. Garrett snapped open his Zippo and proffered a flame.
‘Wena amaZulu?’
The guard smiled broadly. ‘Yes, I am Zulu. How come you speak the language?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘I don’t. Not really. I worked once with a Zulu. Good soldier. Ex South African Defense Force. He taught me enough to get by.’
The guard drew mightily on his cigarette causing the tip to glow like a blast furnace. ‘That is good. Igama lami ngu Petrus, ngubani igama lakho?’
Garrett held out his hand and the guard took it. They shook in the African way, reversing grip. ‘Pleased to meet you, Petrus. My name is Garrett. Have you worked here long?’
‘Yes, sir. Ever since imbali encane was here. I live in a room around the back.’
Garrett struggled with the translation. ‘Little flower?’
Yes, sir. The small nun. Sister Manon. The people call her imbali encane.’
Garrett smiled. The name was perfect. ‘So, tell me, Petrus, why do you keep your weapon in such a sorry state?’
Petrus literally took a step backward in shock. ‘Sir, my weapon is in the best of condition.’ He turned around, bent down and pulled a long blanket wrapped item out from under the chair. He stripped the blanket off to reveal a two-foot long Zulu assegai. The blade of the weapon, fully one foot long and three inches wide at its widest point, shimmered in the sun due to the thin layer of protective oil. The edge’s, razor sharp. The wooden handle was dark with the sweat from many thousands of hours of training. He flip
ped it in the air, catching it by the blade and offered it to Garrett, handle first. Garrett took it and swung it a few time experimentally to get its heft. And then he stabbed at an imaginary enemy, twirling and cutting. Blocking, moving, counter thrusting. The blade alive in his hands, whistling and fluting as it sliced through the air. He finished by jumping high in the air and slamming the broad blade down through his fantasy opponent’s clavicle. Twisting the blade and then withdrawing. He handed the spear back to Petrus. ‘Thank you. That is a man’s weapon.’
The Zulu tilted his head in respect. ‘I see you have fought with the blade before.’
Garrett nodded.
‘But,’ Petrus continued. ‘A different blade. I think, perhaps, the machete.’
Garrett nodded again.
‘So you understand,’ continued Petrus as he pointed at the sad Chinese shotgun. ‘That is not my weapon. That is a rusting piece of shit.’
The men shook hands once more and Garrett climbed into his Jeep and programmed in the address that Manon had given him. As soon as the satnav found signal he pulled off. He left the driver’s side window open to provide cooling as opposed to using the aircon. He had nothing against air conditioners; they simply made him feel cut off from the outside, whereas now he could smell the dust of the Highveld. A crisp, flint like tang, carried on a hot breeze. The smell of Africa. He drove past what appeared to be some sort of up market golfing estate and then the satnav took him by twists and turns through Bryanston to Sandton City, a massive shopping mall situated in the suburb of Sandton. Garrett was sure that there was a much quicker way, but he let the satnav take control and allowed his mind to wander, keeping only a peripheral attention on his driving. He was excited to see Brian again. The last five years had been solitary. Not lonely, but alone. He had worked hard, listened to his music, talked as much as was necessary and kept his own company. He had walked next to the path; close enough to see it, following it but never on it. And the more that he was alone the quieter was the beast.
[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Page 3