by L. A. Larkin
‘Olivia,’ says Thusago, ‘I’d like to show you something.’
‘Can I come?’ asks Jacob, clinging to Wolfe’s jeans.
‘Not this time,’ he says, prizing Jacob away and leading Wolfe into a small study.
He shuts the door behind them. A collage of family photos in a gold frame hangs on the wall opposite his desk. The picture dominates the small room. Thusago takes it down. Behind it is a wall safe. He opens it with a key. At the bottom are documents and passports. On the only shelf are two pistols, the larger one she recognises as a Beretta PX4. He takes out the other, smaller handgun.
‘Do you know how to use a pistol?’
‘I’ve fired both pistols and rifles at targets, but that was a long time ago.’
‘This is a CZ 75 Compact. It’s light and easy to conceal. It has two safeties: a firing pin safety and de-cocker. As you haven’t a lot of experience, you’re better off using the de-cocker. I’ll show you.’ Thusago demonstrates how to use the de-cocker and load the magazine. His hand has a slight tremor. When was the last time he handled a loaded gun? Was it when he froze and his partner got shot? ‘The sight is outfitted with a three-dot illuminating system for better aiming in poor visibility. I want you to have it.’
‘Thanks, Mike, but I don’t need it.’
‘You do need it. This is South Africa. People here carry guns. Ximba is at the bottom of a criminal food chain. There will be a man he reports to. This man will have enforcers. Thugs. With guns. And so it will go on, all the way up to the man behind it all. It doesn’t matter if it’s drugs or ivory or rhino horn or conflict diamonds. These people will be heavily armed.’
‘I can defend myself in other ways.’
‘I know you can. But martial arts aren’t enough. Please take it.’ He places the pistol on the scratched desk. Next to it, he puts a box of fifty Federal 9mm 147 grain Hydra-Shok cartridges.
Wolfe has never carried a concealed weapon. Never killed anybody.
‘Here,’ he says, pulling a hip holster from a desk drawer. ‘Put this on your belt.’ He slaps it down on the desk next to the gun. Wolfe steps way, repulsed.
Thusago turns his attention to the Beretta, loading it. He puts on a shoulder holster under his jacket. When he’s finished, he looks up. The CZ 75 hasn’t moved.
‘Please,’ says Thusago. ‘Take it.’
Through the door Jacob calls out, ‘Can I come in, Daddy? I want to show Olivia something.’ The door knob wobbles.
Thusago scoops up the CZ 75 and hides it in a desk drawer, just as the little boy enters. He’s holding a small book in his hand.
‘Olivia, will you read this to me?’
Wolfe kneels down and takes the book. It’s an English collection of traditional Zulu stories with beautiful illustrations. ‘Which story?’
The King of the Birds.
21
Helsinki, Finland
As soon as he heard of Helsinki’s ghost town he knew where he would end the man’s life.
On his iPad is the target’s photo. Ailo Lod, twenty-three, works for a human rights charity. The assassin’s lip curls. A do-gooder. He detests do-gooders. Long hair like a girl, tortoiseshell glasses, and a sparse goatee. He won’t put up much of a fight.
The drive to Kruunuvuori, the site of a small community of abandoned villas deep in a forest, will take him thirty-five minutes. He’s already driven the route. Capturing Lod will be a piece of cake. Getting him from the car boot and into the villa he has chosen will be the difficult part. It’s a ten-minute walk through the forest. And that’s without having to drag an unconscious body. The graffitied and crumbling houses have been left to rot since the seventies, so he’s not expecting company. But why drag a dead weight through a dense forest when you don’t have to? His reconnoitre solved the problem. Water laps at the villas’ shore, so a stolen rowboat will serve as transport.
The hired Skoda Octavia Wagon has plenty of boot space. Two large tarps, ropes and a spade. Who would have thought buying a machete in Finland would be so fucking hard? A large cleaver will have to do.
It’s fucking cold, and he’s thankful for the heated car seats as he waits for Lod to leave his workplace and unlock his bicycle from a bike rack. The bloody city is littered with bikes. In winter the sun only notches above the horizon at eleven thirty in the morning, and falls again an hour and a half later. Why would anyone want to live in such a miserable place?
Scrolling through photos of the villas he took earlier, he studies the one he’s selected. Two levels, a massive hole in the upstairs floor, splintered wood strewn all over the ground floor, broken furniture, graffiti in bright colours on the outside cladding. He visualises his victim waking, groggy, confused. Finding himself chained up. He will slash Lod’s spine first, so his victim can’t use his legs. He’ll unchain his captive and give him ten minutes to crawl to freedom. If Lod’s got any guts, he’ll try to escape, and end up cutting his hands on the splintered wood and broken glass littering the derelict home.
His fans love it when he makes funny quips. He’s got the perfect one for Lod. ‘Spineless wimp!’ he’ll yell. That’ll get him some laughs. He’ll shoot a video this time, so they hear everything.
When he’s not hunting people, he hunts animals. The fun is not in a clean kill. It’s in deliberately wounding it so its death is slow and agonising. He’ll stalk the wounded beast, then stand over it as it takes its last breath. As he will do with Lod.
His phone rings. Seeing the caller’s ID, he answers immediately. An unscheduled call sets his nerves on edge.
‘Yes?’ he says.
‘I need you back in South Africa.’
‘Do I deal with Lod first?’
‘How long will it take?’
‘I can be on a flight tonight and in Johannesburg tomorrow morning.’
‘Make sure you’re on that flight. No games, you hear? We don’t have time for that.’
‘You pay me to do a job for you. You don’t dictate how I do it.’
‘Samuel, I tolerate your dramatics because you never fail me. However, this time above all I need speed. You understand.’
It wasn’t a question. It was an order.
‘I understand,’ Samuel says, but he can’t disguise the disappointment in his voice.
His employer continues, ‘And another thing. No live streaming. No chat rooms.’
‘You’ve enjoyed my work in the past.’
‘I have. But this is different. The South African, Russian, Swazi, and this Finn must disappear without a trace.’
‘Nobody will know what happened to Lod except you and me,’ Samuel lies.
‘Good. I’m sending you your next subject.’ Samuel’s phone pings – he has a message, no doubt with a photo attached. ‘Mazwi Ximba. He is no longer loyal. Make it look like an accident. And no theatrics.’
Samuel’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. He wants to tell his employer to get fucked, but he pays well above market and usually doesn’t interfere.
‘One more thing. A woman. I want her watched.’
‘I don’t do surveillance.’
‘You do whatever I tell you.’
22
Thusago pours coffee from a thermos flask and hands the cup to Wolfe. She takes a sip. Through the lounge room window of the solid mustard-yellow house in Diepkloof they watch Ximba and his wife, Funani. He has changed into a casual shirt and jeans. She is in a purple and blue kaftan and a chunky beaded necklace. He has his arm around her as they watch television. Wolfe yawns, checks her watch. Almost eleven and Terry Blunt is a no-show.
‘He definitely said he’d see Ximba tonight,’ she says. ‘So, where is he?’
‘Maybe Ximba’s waiting for Funani to go to bed? She may not know what he’s involved in and he wants to keep it that way.’
‘I’m thinking Blunt is his handler.’
‘Could be.’
She glances at Thusago. ‘You’re happy to stay a little longer then?’
‘Gues
s so.’ He zips up his coat. Hugs himself against the cold.
A light goes on upstairs and Funani draws the bedroom curtains. Ximba leaves the lounge room too.
‘Maybe he’s going to bed?’ Wolfe asks.
A few minutes later, Wolfe gets a message from Ponnappa.
Ximba has clicked the link I sent. About time!
She shows Thusago the message.
‘So now Ponnappa can see what he’s doing on his computer?’
‘She can.’
The bedroom light goes out. The house is quiet.
Mike tilts his seat back and closes his eyes. Soon he’s snoring. Wolfe’s eyelids droop. Her head slowly inclines forward, eyes closed.
Wolfe’s burner phone vibrates. Startled, she fumbles to answer it.
‘Hello?’ Her tone guarded.
‘Olivia? Are you okay?’
She recognises the Russian accent, his unhurried speech, the way he pronounces her name.
‘Yes. I’m fine.’
The scrape of an ill-fitting door distracts her. Ximba appears through a side passage gate and gets in his car. She shakes Thusago awake.
‘Mike, he’s leaving.’ She points through the windscreen.
‘Shit!’ Thusago hurriedly turns the ignition, and they head off after the receding tail lights.
‘Are you in danger?’ Yushkov’s voice is tinged with anxiety.
‘No,’ says Wolfe. ‘I’m working a story. Tailing someone. But that’s not why I called. I’m in South Africa.’
His breathing is slow and regular. She holds hers.
‘Who is with you?’ Yushkov asks.
Unsure how he will react if he knows she is with a cop, she says, ‘A friend. He’s helping me. He can be trusted.’
‘His name?’ There is an insistence in Yushkov’s voice that sets her on edge.
‘I trust him. That should be enough, Vitaly.’
He is silent again. Down the line she hears men’s voices, but they are too distant to make out what they say.
When Yushkov speaks again, it is in his native tongue. He knows she has some basic Russian. He asks, again, if she is in danger. He tells her to keep the line open if she needs help, so he can trace her. Wolfe replies in Russian, telling him she is safe and in Johannesburg.
One final test.
‘What is the shape of the scar on my left shoulder?’
‘A star. I have traced its outline with my tongue,’ she says in Russian.
Yushkov laughs. ‘I am sorry, Olivia.’ He reverts to English, his tone softened, intimate. ‘I had to be sure.’
‘And you, are you okay?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I am okay.’ The silence drags out, neither of them sure how to fill it. ‘It is good to hear your voice. I have missed you.’
‘And I you. Are you still in Durban?’
‘Nyet.’ Someone shouts at Yushkov, Let’s go. ‘I cannot talk now. I will call you soon. I want to see you.’
The line goes dead.
Thusago looks askance at her. ‘Looks like Ximba’s going to Douglasdale. Must be meeting Blunt there.’
She stares out of the window.
‘That was Yushkov?’ Thusago asks.
‘It was.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. He’s calling back.’
They lapse into silence. Thusago keeps on Ximba’s tail.
‘This is strange,’ says Thusago. ‘Fourways is for tourists and party-goers. Young people. What’s he doing here?’
23
The venue is drenched in red light and as the crowd of 150 people jumps and writhes to the band, it seems to Wolfe as if the whole room is pulsing, spinning, flailing. The upper level is all seating, arranged like a theatre’s upper circle, with bar staff constantly tending to the patrons. Wolfe squeezes through the throng searching for Ximba.
She’d tailed Ximba out of a multi-story car park and into a shopping centre, up the escalator and into Tanz Café, although why such a huge music venue should be given that name she can’t imagine. Thusago, who has met Ximba before and therefore might be recognised, has followed at a distance. He was meant to join her inside the venue, but so far he’s a no-show.
Where are you? she texts him.
It doesn’t take long for Wolfe to pinpoint Ximba, seated at one of the semi-circular booths at the rear. The man next to him is white. She inches closer. Using the crowd to hide her, she surreptitiously snaps photos of both men.
Terry Blunt is middle aged and heavily built, with a receding hairline, and moustache. He leans back, arms out wide on the top of the red leather banquette, seemingly relaxed and confident. In contrast, Ximba leans forward, using his hands for emphasis, shaking his head, visibly distressed. In the next booth, two couples in their twenties have amassed a collection of empty wine and beer glasses. One pair heads for the dance floor. Wolfe sees an opportunity. Switching on her video record button, she holds her phone low against her thigh, then pushes through the throng towards one of the vacated seats.
‘Mind if I sit here for a minute?’ Wolfe asks the man and woman seated arm in arm.
‘It’s taken,’ says the attractive blonde woman.
‘Please? Just while your friends are dancing. There’s nowhere else, and my feet are killing me.’
Wolfe swivels her phone towards Ximba, keeping it hip height, as if she’s simply holding it.
Ximba says to Blunt, ‘I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore.’
‘They’ll be back soon–’ the pretty blonde begins, but the boyfriend jumps in. ‘Come on, Mel, just a few minutes.’ Then he asks Wolfe. ‘Is that a British accent?’
Blunt takes one arm from the back of the banquette and lays it over Ximba’s shoulders. Ximba flinches. ‘Grow a spine, will you?’ says Blunt.
Wolfe tunes out of the Blunt–Ximba conversation long enough to answer the young guy’s question, knowing the whole thing is being recorded. ‘Yes, I’m English,’ Wolfe says. ‘On holiday. And you? Scottish?’
‘Inverness.’ He puts his hand out. ‘I’m Cameron. This is Mel.’
In the next booth, Ximba raises his voice. ‘I could lose everything. He’s police, for God’s sake!’
Is Ximba referring to Casburn or Thusago, or even Msiza?
‘I’m Beth,’ Wolfe says, shaking Cameron’s hand. Mel looks none too happy. ‘I’m loving the band.’
‘They’re local. Good, aren’t they?’
Blunt says, ‘Don’t be stupid, man. He won’t let you go.’
The dancing couple leave the dance floor and look at Wolfe expectantly.
‘I’m off.’ Wolfe stands up. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
Wolfe has run out of excuses to hover near Ximba. So she mingles with the crowd, but stays near enough to watch both men.
Where is Thusago?
Blunt abruptly gets up and heads for the exit. Ximba stays put and stares at his beer. Does Wolfe stick with Ximba or follow Blunt? Perhaps the Zimbabwean will lead her to someone higher up the chain of command? She checks her phone again. Nothing from Thusago.
Ximba still inside club. I’m tailing Blunt just leaving. Can you stick with Ximba? she messages.
Wolfe heads out of the venue, blinking at the sudden brightness of the shopping centre. Looking down the mall’s central void, she locates the white Zimbabwean striding down the escalator. She can see him clearly now: tanned skin, hair the colour of wheat and a thick coppery moustache. His short-sleeved shirt reveals strong arms.
Wolfe runs to keep up. He exits and turns right. The street is bustling with people partying. She makes sure to keep a few people between her and her quarry so as not to get noticed. He enters a twenty-four-hour mini supermarket and buys a pack of cigarettes. Wolfe hovers outside. Checks her phone. Still nothing from Thusago. She dials his number. It goes to voicemail.
Blunt pays for his cigarettes, leaves the shop and lights one. He’s no more than a few feet from her, but he doesn’t look her way. He walks further down the street and turns right
, leaving a trail of smoke behind. As Wolfe turns the corner, she is headlocked by a muscular arm, her back pulled hard against someone’s chest. She immediately drops her chin, just as Butcher taught her, so her assailant finds it harder to crush her windpipe. He smells of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. She feels the cold of a gun barrel pressed against her temple.
‘Who are you?’ Blunt says.
She has underestimated him. His movements are swift and skilled – probably ex-army. With a gun at her head, there’s a limit to what she can do to escape. But he’s not using a suppressor. So, she reasons, he won’t pull the trigger. Too many people are still about who will hear the gun fire. The last thing he probably wants is the police asking questions. And Thusago is nearby. He must be. And he’s armed.
‘Ow! You’re hurting me.’
His mouth is so close to her ear she can feel his hot breath. ‘I said, who are you?’
‘Beth. Beth Summers. Let me go!’
‘That burnt-out cop sent you, didn’t he?’
He knows about Thusago? How?
‘What cop?’ Wolfe says.
‘He was parked outside the warehouse earlier.’
‘No, I don’t know any cop. I’m on holiday here.’
‘Oh yeah? You tell that loser to keep his Kaffir nose out of my business, you got that?’
Behind her, a bottle shatters. Her captor swings around, dragging her with him and points what she now recognises is a Colt M1911. But there’s no one there. Just a cat scrounging for food from bins. Now is her chance. His gun points forward, not at her. She steps to one side, which forces him to tilt. Now she puts her left leg behind his right, using her leverage to force him to lean forward as if he’s bowing. Twisting her head, she squeezes it out of his now loosened hold. She yanks his arm back behind him sharply, and knees him as hard as she can in the groin. He collapses, moaning. She rips the Colt from his fingers.
‘Fok jou, bitch!’
He hits out with his elbow. It connects with her stomach. Stunned by the blow, she drops the gun. He seizes it, then staggers down the narrow street. Wolfe is too winded to give chase. He tumbles into his vehicle and speeds away.