by L. A. Larkin
‘No,’ says Casburn. ‘We talk here.’
Yushkov turns back to face him. They’re five feet apart and Casburn wants to keep it that way. The floodlit fountain throws flickering dapples of light across the Russian’s face and body. He has a raised scar under his eye. Casburn remembers the skin splitting.
‘Are you carrying?’ Casburn asks.
‘Nyet. But you are.’ Yushkov stares at him. Cold. Unblinking. ‘You killed my sister,’ he says, so quietly Casburn almost misses it.
‘I did not. She died in Russia.’
Yushkov takes a step forward. Casburn watches the big man’s hands. Clenched fists. ‘I asked you to trade. Her life for mine. You did not do this. You killed her.’
He takes another step. Casburn draws his weapon. Points it at Yushkov’s chest. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
Yushkov stops.
‘Step back.’
He does. ‘You think I have come here to kill you? You do not know me, Casburn. Remember that.’
Casburn lowers the gun. ‘I want to talk about Olivia Wolfe.’
‘So, talk.’
‘Do you know she is in Johannesburg?’
A brief frown. Momentary confusion in the Russian’s eyes. ‘What I know doesn’t matter. What do you want?’
‘She’s working on a story that’s politically sensitive. Some powerful people will not take kindly to her interfering. I want you to persuade her to drop it.’
Yushkov laughs raucously, head thrown back, as if they are sharing a lewd joke. This is not the reaction Casburn was hoping for.
‘Olivia is causing you a problem? I say, “Good!” Why should I give a shit?’
‘Because she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.’
‘Olivia is a brave woman. She can look after herself. You are wasting my time.’
‘I want you to meet her. Warn her. She’ll listen to you.’
‘You think I am at your… how do you say, beck and call? You are wrong.’
Yushkov stalks off. Casburn catches up with him, puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait! One phone call, and the SVR will know where to find you.’ Russia’s external intelligence service, the SVR, has been hunting Yushkov for a while. ‘And you know what that means.’
Yushkov slaps Casburn’s hand away as if it were an annoying fly. ‘So, this is how it will be. You will never let me be free.’
‘All I am asking is that you meet Wolfe. You want to see her, don’t you?’
‘Of course, I want to see her,’ he says, momentarily dropping his guard. ‘I cannot.’
Casburn senses he’s found Yushkov’s vulnerable spot.
‘Why can’t you? A man like you could find a way.’
Yushkov doesn’t answer.
‘Why the fuck can’t you see her?’ Casburn shouts.
Yushkov drops his gaze. ‘It is dangerous for her.’
‘Don’t give me that. You can meet in secret. This is what you’re good at.’
There is no response. Just a cold stare.
‘Well?’
‘I must let her go,’ Yushkov says, almost a whisper. ‘Give her time to forget. To find someone else.’
For a few seconds Casburn is lost for words. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. She wasn’t just a fuck, was she? You actually care for her?’
Before Casburn knows what is happening Yushkov has grabbed the pistol from Casburn’s holster. The muzzle is barely a foot from his face.
‘Take it easy, Yushkov.’
‘It is your job to protect British citizens. Olivia is a British citizen. Now do your job.’ Yushkov ejects the magazine and throws it and the Glock into some bushes. ‘Do not ever contact me again.’
Casburn has one card left to play. He didn’t want to use it, but now he has no choice. ‘Yury Sukletin. If she keeps going, that’s who she’s going to piss off.’
‘Sukletin?’
‘Yes.’
Yushkov takes a deep breath. Nods. ‘I will talk to Olivia.’
19
They are at Ntsitsi’s street stall in Diepkloof. Wolfe swallows her last mouthful of one of Ntsitsi’s famous kotas: a hollowed-out quarter loaf of bread that’s filled with potato fries, Russian sausage, cold meat, cheese, and mango atchar.
‘Delicious. Just what I needed,’ she says, sucking her fingers clean. ‘You sure you’re up for a stake-out tonight?’
‘Sure.’
They’d driven past the headmaster’s house earlier.
‘Good. Any chance you could run a check on the black Prado’s number plate?’
‘I don’t know, Olivia,’ Thusago replies. ‘I’m on sick leave. People will ask questions.’
‘Maybe someone who owes you?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Lerato might do it.’
Thusago makes a call, claiming somebody dinged his car and drove off, and he wants to trace the driver.
‘She’ll get back to me,’ he says, pocketing his phone. ‘How did you remember the plate, anyway?’
‘Taught myself to spot details like that. It’s saved my life more than once.’ She wipes her mouth with a napkin. ‘Any idea about what’s going on? So far, we’ve got a British Chancellor linked to Mazwi Ximba through an offshore bank account with twenty million dollars in it. The account is registered to what appears to be a shell company, ZIB Trading. And we have a high-ranking police officer, Major-General Msiza, possibly covering up a missing woman’s murder.’
‘My first thought is drugs. South Africa is a major transit point for heroin trafficking, some of it destined for your country, and, as you know, crystal meth is very big business. Your Chancellor would be able to get the drugs into the UK unnoticed. Ximba may be the money-man, greasing palms, bribing customs officers.’
‘And Msiza?’
Thusago grimaces. ‘Not so long ago our National Police Commissioner, Jackie Selebi, was convicted of corruption. He was getting paid off by a drug syndicate. So yes, if the commissioner is guilty, then Msiza could be, but I hope he is not. He’s made it his mission to stamp out corruption, or so he says. I want to believe our senior officers are serving their people, and not just themselves.’
Wolfe considers this for a moment. ‘You mentioned earlier this could be about conflict diamonds. That’s not likely, is it? I thought they came from war zones like Sierra Leone?’
‘You are right and you are wrong. There is always conflict over diamonds, Olivia. It does not matter if they are from war zones or mined here in South Africa. Do you know Ackerman Mining?’
‘Yes, it’s second only to De Beers, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Last year, there was a strike at Ackerman’s biggest mine in the Limpopo Province. Police officers fired on the demonstration, killing seventeen men. They said the workers attacked them. Witnesses say this is untrue. It is possible the officers were ordered to shoot. Ackerman is a very powerful man.’
‘That’s interesting. I’ve looked into Sackville’s background. It turns out he was at school in South Africa with Clive Ackerman and they’re still friends.’
Thusago raises an eyebrow. ‘That could be a problem. Clive Ackerman is protected. It will be very difficult to get information on him.’
Wolfe shrugs. ‘Maybe Ackerman is irrelevant. I can’t imagine him risking everything to sell illegal diamonds when he has more than enough that are legit.’
‘There are rumours. Small independent operators near Ackerman’s largest mine generally produce average stones, but recently they have apparently been selling diamonds of exceptional quality. What I tell you has not been proved, but the word is these diamonds come from Angola and Ackerman is paying to have them laundered.’
‘So, what are conflict diamonds worth?’
‘It is said the blood diamonds funding the war in Sierra Leone were worth one hundred and thirty-eight million US dollars per year. And the war went on for eleven years.’
‘So much money. So much misery.’ Wolfe sighs and stares out of the window, shaking her head slowly.
‘And poaching?’
‘I know something about this. Before I met Camila, I had a girlfriend who worked for the Department of Environmental Affairs. Wildlife trafficking is the fourth most lucrative illicit trade, after drugs, humans and firearms. And rhino horn is the most lucrative of all.’
‘Who drives it? Trophy hunters?’
‘No, the real drivers are the Asian syndicates. They fund military-style poaching operations and smuggle the horn into China and Vietnam.’
Wolfe Googles rhino poaching on her iPhone. ‘It says here South Africa has the world’s largest rhino population, but nearly 7,100 have been poached since 2007. My God, so many. Why? Because some limp-dick wants to have a horn on his desk?’
‘You have such a way with words, Olivia.’ Thusago laughs. ‘But yes, to these Vietnamese businessmen it’s a status thing. Or a gift to cement a deal. Sometimes they share a drink of horn powder in water to celebrate a new business relationship.’
‘It’s also supposed to cure all manner of illnesses, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. In China and Vietnam they believe it has medicinal qualities.’
‘But it’s just keratin, isn’t it? Like my fingernails.’
‘Yes, but it’s sold as a cure for almost anything: fever, erection problems, even cancer. And people pay a fortune for it. It is one of the most precious commodities on the black market today. When I last checked, horn was selling for $60,000 per kilo, which puts it up there with cocaine and heroin.’
‘I had no idea.’
Thusago’s phone rings. He answers, pulls out a small notepad and jots down a name and address.
‘So, Lerato came though?’
‘She did. The black Prado is registered to Terry Blunt at a business address for the KwaZulu Natal Co-operative. Sugar cane.’
‘That’s interesting. Zoe Blunt is down as the director of ZIB Trading, and I’m guessing they’re related. I’ll message Jwala and ask her to look into Terry Blunt. Check for a criminal record.’ Wolfe Googles the name. Finds a photo of him taken in Zimbabwe in a sugar cane field. ‘Let’s go take a look at the KwaZulu Natal Co-operative.’
An hour later, they pull up outside a row of brown brick warehouses in Wynberg, on an industrial estate popular with mechanics, second-hand car dealers and importers of electricals. On the other side of a nine-foot-high mesh fence, trucks thunder down the freeway, flinging dust and litter into the air.
‘There’s warehouse eight,’ Wolfe says, pointing. ‘Can’t see any signage for the co-operative, though. Can you?’
‘And no trucks with the company logo either.’
‘And no black Prado. I’m guessing he’s out. I’ll take a closer look. You want to come?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Just going to snoop around. Maybe you should stay here. Warn me if anyone turns up.’
Wolfe switches her phone to vibrate, dons her baseball cap and sunglasses in case there are security cameras operating, and, as always, takes her go-bag with her, strapped to her back.
Hard rock music booms from the auto repair shop next door, competing with the revving of car engines and the clank of spanners. The roller door is padlocked. To its right is a door painted green which has been reinforced with steel plates and is locked. She presses one ear against it and covers the other, trying to drown out the loud music. There’s no doorbell. She can’t hear anybody on the inside. She looks up. No security cameras either.
‘He’s not there,’ calls out a man in a boiler suit having a smoke outside the next-door unit.
‘You mean Terry?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Know when he’ll be back?’
‘No idea,’ he says, taking his last puff before stamping the butt under his boot and shuffling back into the repair shop.
Wolfe looks around at Thusago in his car. He won’t like what she’s about to do, which is why she suggested he stay behind and keep watch. She imagines Jerry Butcher shaking his head, telling her not to do it, reminding her that the tricks her brother taught her helped to land him in jail. But Sandra West was killed because of what she knew. And Msiza is possibly involved in another woman’s death. She can’t hang around and wait for somebody else to die. There’s no point contacting Casburn. He has his own agenda and he doesn’t trust her. She reasons that all she is going to do is take a look inside.
She peels her pack’s straps off her shoulders, checks there is nobody from the repair shop watching, then slides a lock-pick from its sheath, hidden inside the left-hand strap. Then she slips it into the lock. It takes a bit of jiggling but in less than a minute there’s a click and she hurries inside the warehouse.
Blotchy sunlight penetrates the grimy glass-panelled roof, revealing an almost empty space which must be over a thousand square feet. There doesn’t appear to be anybody around. At one end are floor-to-ceiling racks designed to support merchandise. At another, a jumble of broken pallets. At the back, a cabin-like office with a window, in darkness. No bagged or raw sugar. No forklifts. The space is dusty and lacks the caramel smell of sugar production. In fact, there is nothing even remotely to suggest a sugar co-op is based here. Wolfe peers through the cabin’s office window. Computer, monitor, filing cabinet, ashtray, bar fridge, shabby sofa. She tries the door. Locked. Feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. A warning? Adrenaline rushes through her body.
The sudden clank of the roller door rising startles her. As the gap under the door widens she hears the rumble of a car’s diesel engine. She can’t escape the way she came in, because she’ll be seen. There’s nowhere to hide except behind the cabin. She races behind it to find two half-full skip bins. She crawls between them on her hands and knees.
A vehicle is driven into the warehouse, the roller doors shut. Her view is blocked by the cabin. Boots crunch grit. A key rattles in a lock. The cabin floor creaks. A fluorescent light blinks several times and comes on; it’s an unhealthy greenish-white light seeping out of the office into the rest of the warehouse interior. A phone rings.
‘Everything’s on schedule.’ Male. Zimbabwean accent. Deep voice. Probably Terry Blunt. ‘Yes, everyone is coming.’ A pause while he listens to the caller. ‘Yes, him too.’ Another pause. ‘The first one arrives Friday night.’ Pause. ‘Yes, I’m meeting Ximba tonight.’ Pause. ‘I will.’
Metal rasps on metal as a filing cabinet opens and closes. Lights go out. The cabin door shuts. A long beep. Wolfe catches a glimpse of the man leaving with a black briefcase. It’s Blunt. The roller door opens and he reverses out, then closes it behind him.
Wolfe crawls out of her hiding place to find a light flashing inside the cabin. Blunt has set an alarm. There’s nothing more she can discover here, so she leaves, careful to lock the green door behind her.
‘Jesus!’ says Thusago, almost jumping out of his skin as she gets in the car. ‘I thought he’d found you.’
‘Blunt didn’t know I was there. It was worth the risk. I learned three things. One, that warehouse isn’t used to trade sugar cane. Two, he’s meeting Ximba tonight, but I don’t know where. And three, someone or something arrives here Friday. That’s the day I’m due to fly back to England.’
‘What will you do?’
She looks him in the eye. ‘I’m not leaving until I know what the hell is going on.’
20
Wolfe bowls a tennis ball at six-year-old Jacob Thusago. His orange plastic cricket bat connects for a cover drive that belies his age, and the ball flies towards his father at waist-height. Mike makes a big show of missing the catch. Jacob squeals with delight and makes two runs before his dad throws the ball to Camila, waiting at the stumps.
‘Time for dinner,’ says Camila, her Chilean accent soft and lilting. She winds her long black hair into a tight sausage-curl on the top of her scalp and secures it with a hair clip. She’s a petite, pretty woman with olive skin and eyes that turn down at the edges, which gives the impression she is sad.
‘Olivia, will you help me?’
&
nbsp; ‘Sure.’
‘No. Pleeeeese,’ the little boy begs. ‘Don’t take Olivia.’
‘Papa will keep playing,’ Camila says.
Jacob pouts. ‘But I want Ol-iv-ia,’ he wails.
‘After dinner you can show Olivia your Transformer Steeljaw, okay?’
‘Okay.’ The boy gives an exaggerated sigh and stabs the bat into the parched ground.
‘He’s adorable,’ says Wolfe, stepping onto the back deck and following Camila into their modest bungalow.
Camila takes a casserole dish from the fridge and places it in the pre-heated oven. ‘A dish from home. Cazuela de Vacuno. Beef stew with vegetables, garlic, onion, oregano, paprika. I hope you like spicy?’
‘The hotter the better. What can I do?’ asks Wolfe.
Camila glances out through the kitchen window where her husband and son have resumed their cricket. ‘To be honest, I wanted to talk. About Mike.’ Camila holds up a bottle of pinotage. ‘Like to try some South African wine?’
Wolfe has a stake-out planned for tonight, but she accepts to keep Camila company.
‘What’s up?’ Wolfe asks.
Camila looks down. ‘Mike isn’t well. He told you, yes?’
‘He did.’
‘There are days he won’t get out of bed. On others he is angry.’
‘You think working with me will make him worse?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him this happy for a long time. No, it’s not that.’ Camila sips her wine. ‘Keep him safe, will you? He’s… he’s vulnerable right now.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘It is good for him to have you here. I think you will prove to be better therapy than his psychiatrist.’
Jacob runs into the kitchen and wraps his arms around Wolfe’s legs.
‘He wants to be with Olivia,’ Thusago says, his eyes roaming from the empty kitchen workbench to the oven where the stew is already cooking. ‘That was quick.’ He gives Camila a questioning look.
‘Team work,’ says Camila, raising her glass at Wolfe.
‘To team work.’ Wolfe touches her glass to Camila’s in a toast.