by L. A. Larkin
From the house, a burst of laughter. She hears a few words in English. Wolfe studies the phone. It may be a burner, but it can shoot video and take photos. The entire syndicate is gathered in Nguyen’s house. If she could get them on video, she’d finally have the evidence she needs. But it’s a huge risk. On the other hand, all she has to do is cut the power to the fence, climb over it, and she’s free.
Wolfe shuts the power box, checks the phone’s battery and signal are good, and sends the same text message to Moz Cohen and Jerry Butcher, their phone numbers etched on her brain:
There will be an assassination attempt on MP Caroline Bloom in Johannesburg tonight. Warn her. Alert SO1.
There’s a lump in her throat as she taps in the next few words.
Vitaly Yushkov and Terry Blunt may be the assassins. Tan Nguyen has ordered the hit. From Olivia Wolfe.
Wolfe sends the message, then immediately switches off the phone. She hopes Nguyen’s security team hasn’t picked up its signal.
Keeping close to the fence she heads for the house. She follows the voices. The gathering is on a raised deck and viewing platform at the rear of the house, surrounded on three sides by frameless glass balustrading, in daylight affording them magnificent views across the waterhole and the bushveld beyond. The ground falls away steeply from the house to the waterhole. Wolfe hides in the dark beneath the platform. From between the deck floor and the bottom of the glass balustrading, she can watch and hear Nguyen’s guests.
Nguyen stands at the far end, a hand on the balustrade, talking to Harold Sackville, who is putting on a good show of being jovial and relaxed, but he repeatedly rubs his thumb and first finger together, a nervous twitch Wolfe has seen before in his TV interviews. With them, and seated in a wicker armchair, is the US Senate Majority Leader, Sebastian Lewis. In the armchair next to the senator is the unmistakable Yury Sukletin, who dabs his sweaty face with a handkerchief.
Funani Ximba and the mayor of Johannesburg laugh at a story an Indian woman is telling them, her expansive hand gestures adding a Marcel Marceau quality to the conversation. Wolfe recognises her as Prisha Chawla, known as the Queen of Bollywood, an extremely wealthy movie producer. In another group, seated near an open fire, is George Mokweka, the recently elected President of Mozambique and South Africa’s Police Commissioner. They are joined by a smartly dressed Asian man she doesn’t recognise, but from the cut of his silk suit, pristine white shirt, mirror shine Oxfords and immaculate grooming, she’s guessing he’s some ultra high net worth businessman or financier. Waiters move between the guests, offering drinks and canapés. Blunt joins the group and raises his beer bottle in a toast. A chef cooks a springbok on a spit. If Wolfe didn’t know better, she could imagine them as wealthy tourists relaxing after a day on safari. But that’s not why they are Nguyen’s guests.
Wolfe must hurry. It won’t take long for her guard to realise he wasn’t needed at the hangar. Wolfe turns on the phone and sets it to video record, then positions the camera lens in the gap between the stone floor and the glass balustrade. She swivels it from side to side, hoping to get all of the guests.
Nguyen taps a spoon against his champagne glass for quiet.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Nguyen begins, ‘thank you all for coming. I have called the syndicate together because, as you all know, the GROWT convention is tomorrow. Top of the agenda is the vote on whether or not the international trade in rhino horn should be legalised.’
Murmurs of concern ripples through the group.
‘Bloody bunny huggers,’ Sackville says, loud enough for Wolfe to hear.
‘Do not worry, my friends,’ Nguyen continues. ‘I have everything under control. Do not forget that I am secretary general of this year’s convention and will make the opening address. I’ll urge the delegates to continue the ban.’ He pauses, gives them a mischievous grin and continues with obvious sarcasm, ‘So we can do everything possible to protect these magnificent creatures.’
Sukletin bursts out laughing. Others snigger.
The American calls out, ‘As long as they’re dead, stuffed and on your wall, huh?’ His comment earns him enthusiastic applause.
‘As you know, the vote is anonymous. There are countries who want the ban lifted so the money from the sale of horn can go into protecting rhinos from evil poaching syndicates.’
Loud laughter.
‘It will be a close call. Or it was going to be a close call. And we all know that if the ban is lifted, the market will be flooded with horn that’s been stockpiled for years and it will jeopardise our enterprise. We cannot let this happen.’
His audience is quiet. Worried.
‘But do not fear, my friends. I can assure you the ban will not be lifted tomorrow.’
‘When last I checked,’ Sackville pipes up, ‘the odds were in favour of ratification. One hundred and forty-three countries. Seventeen will abstain. Seventy in favour of legalisation. That includes South Africa, Russia, Finland, Swaziland, Namibia, and Mozambique.’
‘And Britain too,’ chips in Chawla. ‘I hear your environment minister is voting to lift the ban, despite British public opinion to the contrary.’
Sackville shakes his head. ‘I’ve done all I can to persuade her. Bloody stubborn woman.’
Nguyen says, ‘I can assure you matters are in hand. Key delegates will vote “No” tomorrow.’ He turns to Sackville. ‘Including the UK. It just takes the right kind of persuasion.
‘But we cannot be complacent. The next convention is in three years time, when we may not get the outcome we desire. And as South African rhinos become scarcer, we are going to need to expand operations to other countries. We have some difficult decisions to make. This is why I invited you here this weekend, so we can make those decisions. Thank you.’
The senator raises his champagne glass. ‘I propose a toast. Tan Nguyen!’
As they raise their glasses, Wolfe creeps away.
96
Wolfe throws all four switches on the power board and looks up at the electric fence. There’s nothing to indicate the power is out. She takes off her shirt and balls it around one hand. Touches a wire. Nothing. She starts to climb. The thin wire is tough on her unprotected hand and pain stabs at her stitches.
A shock of bright light and she misses her footing. The compound is lit up like a football stadium. She hears shouting. It won’t be long before she has company.
At the top, she straddles the fence, and starts down the other side. More shouting, this time closer. Taking a gamble, she jumps, landing five feet below on cleared ground. Beyond the fence, she can see nothing but night. She has no torch; her mobile phone has very little battery left, and she’ll need to use it later to contact Clarke. She wants to run, but it’s too risky. One wrong step and she could twist an ankle or plough into a tree or a boulder. So she walks, hands out in front.
Wolfe tries to remember the map she studied in the helicopter. Nguyen’s mansion faces north, which means her holding cell faces west. She climbed the fence at the back of her cell, so she is heading east.
Each step takes her further away from Nguyen and closer to freedom. Close by, she hears a rustle. She fears it may be a snake, or a larger predator. A small warthog bolts past her, tail pointed at the sky. Wolfe keeps going. Her brow collides with a low-hanging branch and she starts. She rubs her forehead and looks back at Nguyen’s property. The compound is a bright blur in the distance, probably half a mile away. By now they will have no doubt discovered she is missing and sent out a search party. She speeds up. Ahead, two red dots recede into the distance. Then another pair of red dots. Tail lights. It must be a road. Her heart lifts.
She’s now better able to see the terrain ahead and starts to run. She hears the grumble of a truck. Closer now, Wolfe realises she’s approaching a crossroad, but only one road has continuous street lighting. Three street vendors loiter at the junction – a young man in a yellow and green singlet and baggy red shorts, a teenage girl in a dirty mustard-coloured cotton dre
ss, and a small boy in a brown T-shirt and blue shorts. A car slows at the junction. All three rush over to the passenger window. The man carries a cooler box of canned drinks. The girl has some bananas.
Wolfe has no idea where she is. No landmarks. No buildings. No street signs.
The car accelerates away. The three vendors shuffle back to some plastic milk crates and sit.
Wolfe runs up to them. The man views her with suspicion, his eyes lingering on her bruised face.
‘What do you want?’ his tone aggressive.
‘What is this road?’
‘You are lost?’ He smiles, revealing a chipped front tooth.
‘I’m meeting someone What is this junction called?’
‘Why should I help you?’ he says with a sneer.
‘Let’s trade.’ Wolfe has little with which to trade. She cannot give up the phone, but she can trade the flick knife. ‘Here.’ She holds it up. ‘It’s yours, if you tell me where I am.’
‘Maybe I will just take it.’
He lunges at her, but Wolfe kicks out at his chest, sending the man onto his backside. She opens the flick knife.
‘Please,’ says the girl. ‘Don’t hurt my brother. This is the A6 road,’ she says pointing, ‘that is Cecil Avenue.’
‘Thank you.’
Wolfe steps away and keeps the knife where all three can see it. She switches her phone on, dials Clarke, gives him her location, tells him the phone is almost out of battery. He says twenty minutes.
‘We gave you information. Give me the knife,’ demands the young man.
‘Not till I’m ready, and it belongs to your sister. I did the trade with her.’
‘You should not be here. Who are you with your British accent, huh?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do now. You never saw me. You do this for me and I will buy all your drinks and bananas.’
‘All of them?’ he asks, disbelieving.
‘Whatever you haven’t sold in twenty minutes’ time, I will buy them all.’ She will have to borrow the money from Clarke. ‘Do we have a deal?’
The young man gives her a genuine smile. ‘Deal.’
97
Seated next to Henry Clarke in his helicopter, Wolfe’s eyelids droop. She can’t remember the last time she had a decent night’s sleep. Clarke checks his instruments repeatedly and fidgets in his seat. He’s understandably nervous.
‘The sooner we’re in South African airspace the better.’
‘How long to Sandton?’ she asks through the headphones.
The GROWT conference is being held at the Sandton Convention Centre in Johannesburg.
‘An hour, all going well. No telling what’ll happen when we cross the border, though.’
Wolfe’s burner phone has recharged enough for her to know she has some missed calls. She ignores them for now. Instead, she sends copies of her video of Nguyen and his syndicate to Cohen, Butcher and Ponnappa. Whatever happens in the next few hours, she has to know the footage is in safe hands.
Video of Tan Nguyen, Vietnamese businessman and poacher. Some familiar faces like Harold Sackville. Urgently pass to SO24. Where is Caroline Bloom? Has she been warned? Olivia Wolfe.
In a few seconds, she has three responses.
From Cohen:
If you really are Wolfe, fucking call me. I’ve alerted SO1 and SO24, so you better be legit.
From Butcher: Thank God you’re alive. I’ll forward to SO24 and SO1. They will have people undercover in SA who can evacuate Bloom. She’s at Sandton Towers. Call me.
From Ponnappa:
Mate, be careful. I can track Caroline if I have her mobile and it’s on. What’s the number?
Wolfe replies to Cohen first:
In helicopter so can’t talk. This is Olivia. Proof? You’ve brokered a joint exclusive of my story with SA Herald, you bastard. OK? I need Caroline’s mobile. Don’t have my phone, this is borrowed. Pls try her principal private secretary.
Cohen has an enviable list of private phone numbers for the rich, the famous and the infamous. Within seconds he sends Caroline’s mobile number and also the number for Jamie Osbourne, her principal private secretary, who Cohen confirms is with her in Johannesburg. Wolfe shares these details with Ponnappa and Butcher.
Need floor plans for Sandton Convention Centre, details of security and a day-pass for me? Was told Casburn died in hospital. Can you find out?
Wolfe sends messages to both Caroline and her private secretary, warning them of the planned assassination tonight. No response. She didn’t expect Caroline to reply immediately, she is a minister after all, but the more time goes by, the more worried Wolfe becomes. By the time Clarke lands at Rand Airport in Germiston, a privately-owned civil airport used mainly by charter companies and flight schools, Ponnappa has uploaded everything Wolfe asked for into her Dropbox and texted a link to a one-day pass for the GROWT convention.
‘I’m not coming with you,’ Clarke says, the chopper’s rotors still turning. ‘I need to be with Hannah. You can catch a ride into town with a mate who runs the flight school here. I’ll introduce you.’
98
Wolfe crosses the regal foyer of the InterContinental Johannesburg Sandton Towers, glancing up through the triangular-shaped void to the sixteenth floor. Caroline is in room 1603, but there was no answer when the reception desk called. Wolfe heads straight for the lifts. Her arm is lightly touched by a man with scruffy hair, wearing glasses and a shabby denim jacket, covered in animal charity badges.
‘Olivia Wolfe, I’m DC Stone,’ he says quietly, his accent Lancastrian. ‘Please come with me.’
Wolfe pulls her arm away. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘SO24.’
‘Show me your warrant card.’
‘Let’s not draw attention to ourselves. Please take a seat,’ Stone says, gesturing to one of the numerous leather armchairs positioned around marble-topped coffee tables.
‘I don’t have time for this, Agent Stone. A friend is in terrible danger.’
She presses the lifts’ call button. Stone takes her arm more forcibly and pulls her aside. He holds out his warrant card. Christopher Stone. Metropolitan Police.
‘How did you get here so fast?’ she asks.
‘I’m investigating matters relating to DS Casburn.’
‘Where is he? Did he survive?’
‘Yes. Critical, but stable.’
‘Thank God. They told me he was dead.’
‘Who told you?’ Wolfe brushes the question aside with one hand. Stone continues. ‘I need to know everything. Let’s start with who is trying to kill Caroline Bloom?’
‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘I don’t know you from a bar of soap.’
‘And you’re a reporter. You need to give me a good reason to trust you.’
‘Fair enough. Caroline Bloom is a friend.’ Wolfe is as brief as possible. She tells him how she discovered where Nguyen and his syndicate were meeting, what Yushkov and Blunt told her, and shows the video footage she shot. She explains how Yushkov, who now goes by the name of Dmitry Lazarev, helped her escape, and that he is in Johannesburg. Stone’s back stiffens at the mention of Yushkov. ‘It’s all about the convention’s vote tomorrow. Caroline’s vote. If they eliminate her, they get the outcome they want.’
‘You think Yushkov is the assassin?’
‘Maybe. No. I don’t know. He left for Jo’burg at seven, which means he’ll be here by now.’ She feels like a traitor. ‘He may just be Nguyen’s bodyguard.’ Wolfe has had enough of talking. ‘Is Caroline safe?’
‘Can I call you Olivia?’
‘Call me whatever you like. Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Stone.
‘You’ve searched her room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Signs of a struggle?’
‘No.’
‘Is her mobile on?’
‘No.’
‘Her private secretary?’
‘Can’t be located.’
> ‘Her protection detail?’
‘Can’t be located.’
‘Oh shit.’
Stone suddenly looks very young. He’s a junior officer sent to South Africa to bring Casburn home. He’s out of his depth. ‘Additional SO1 officers are on their way, but they won’t get here till morning. I was ordered not to alert local police so, right now, you’re all I’ve got.’ There are tiny beads of sweat in the cleft of his upper lip. ‘I need to make a call. Stay here.’
He moves a few feet away, talks with his back to her. The call is short. He looks more agitated than before.
‘You have to leave,’ he says to Wolfe.
‘What?’
‘Your relationship with Yushkov is a problem.’
Wolfe stares at Stone in disbelief.
‘No way.’ Wolfe gets up and strides over to the lifts and stabs at the call button. ‘Caroline’s my friend and I’m going to find her.’
‘You must leave this hotel.’
‘Try and make me.’ She glares at him. ‘That’ll draw some unnecessary attention, won’t it?’
‘You’re going nowhere without one of these.’ He holds up a shiny, rectangular pass which gives guests access to their floor and the shared amenities like the restaurant, pool and gym.
‘Thanks,’ she says, ripping it from his hand. A lift door opens.
‘Wait a…’ says Stone, following her into the lift.
He snatches the card back. ‘Get out.’
‘Nope. You need me. I’ve known Caroline for years. Let me look at her room. I’ll know if something’s wrong.’
‘The boss said you were stubborn. He wasn’t wrong.’
‘Takes one to know one.’
Stone uses the security card.
‘Sixteen oh three,’ Wolfe says.
‘How do you…? Never mind.’
The doors open on the sixteenth floor. Caroline’s room is to the right, and right again. Stone is about to knock.