Murderous

by David Hickson

  “Not too fast,” said Chandler.

  “Any slower and we’ll only get to the border after midnight.”

  Chandler sighed. “I’m worried about you, Gabriel, really I am,” he said. “You pulled too late. You know it. And how long does it take to switch a goddamn fuse? You could have blown the whole thing.”

  “The engine was hot,” I said, but I knew that was no excuse.

  “It’s all this nonsense with Robyn,” he said. “You’re becoming a liability, you know that? There was a time I thought I could rely on you.”

  We drove in silence. I had known Chandler for many years, and fought alongside him in situations more stressful than this, but I had never seen him show this level of anxiety. I suspected that he thought we were heading into a disaster. Or perhaps I had become a liability. It would have been foolish not to acknowledge that. I had frightened myself that morning as I dropped to earth. I’d thought I understood the look in Chandler’s eyes, but maybe that was just another of my mistakes.

  “We’re out in the open now,” said Chandler. “No turning back, nowhere to hide.”

  “We’ll be on the highway in less than an hour,” I said, more to reassure myself than Chandler.

  “They’ll be distracted by the lions,” said Chandler. “They’ll hardly look at the rest, won’t notice the extra beams under the crates. You’ll see, it will be fine.”

  When I glanced at him, I found his cool eyes on me. “We’ll do just fine,” he said, and his mouth compressed into a flat line. “It’s plain sailing from here.”

  Twenty

  Maputo, capital city of Mozambique – South Africa’s eastern neighbour – lies beside the ocean trying its best to look like the ‘Pearl of the Indian Ocean’, which is what it had been called in the optimistic past. Portuguese explorers discovered the tiny fishing village that existed there five hundred years ago, decided they liked it, and built themselves a fort so they could keep it for themselves. That didn’t go very well for them. It turned out that the people in the fishing village didn’t feel like sharing it. And so fierce battles were fought over the beleaguered Pearl for hundreds of years, culminating in a civil war that destroyed most of the city near the end of the twentieth century. To this day the scars remain and the palm trees wave their fronds at the clear blue ocean as if they’re pleading for help, and the long, deserted stretches of sandy beaches do their best to look like a holiday destination instead of beaches trying to wash away the blood.

  “That was in France,” said Fat-Boy. “The sailors dropped by the landing craft on the beach. I saw the movie. That kind of shit didn’t happen here.”

  “It’s a goddamn miserable place,” said Chandler. “That’s what the Angel is saying, and he’s right. Goddamn miserable.”

  We had spent most of the previous night transferring the gold into the base of the custom-built crates that Fat-Boy had brought down from the Gorongosa national park in the north. It had been a fifteen-hour drive so he slept through the loading, but woke up in time to watch us transfer the lions back into the crates. He refused to approach within fifty metres of them, so Robyn had to feed the lions and Chandler and I finished loading the boxes of weapons, while Fat-Boy glowered at us. Chandler had abandoned the jeep at the far end of the docks when we arrived, but Fat-Boy insisted on retrieving it to return early to the hotel in order to dress for the part of Billy Mabele. He had taken the jeep against Chandler’s instructions, and now we were enduring a moody tension between them.

  We were standing on the outermost quay of the Maputo cargo terminal area, the first one you would hit if you didn’t slow down as you sailed down the Xefina channel, although Chandler had explained that wouldn’t happen because the ships were brought in by highly paid pilots. Nevertheless, the hulking container ships loomed over us ominously.

  Robyn stood at the edge of the quay and gazed out to sea like she was auditioning for the female lead and playing the scene where the hero doesn’t return. She hugged the fake fur coat tight, and the wind blew her tears towards us. She had not had a drink in three days. Her brittle mood, Fat-Boy’s insolence and my anxiety were taking their toll on Chandler’s usual optimistic outlook.

  “That storm is blowing in,” said Chandler. “If we’re not careful, we’re going to be doing this in the rain.”

  “We could move it into the warehouse,” said Fat-Boy. “That way we don’t get wet.”

  “Why?” asked Chandler. “You going to melt? Are you made of sugar? The rain will be fine, it will work in our favour.”

  “But you just said we needed to be careful,” said Fat-Boy. “You should decide which one it is before you go chewing my head off about it.”

  “I’m not chewing anything,” said Chandler, and he lowered the volume a little, which was never a good sign.

  “Perhaps you two should lay off it,” I suggested. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  A large BMW motorcar was creeping across the tangled web of rail tracks and potholes towards us. I recognised the bulky shape of Piet van Rensburg in the passenger seat. As the car approached, the driver’s window slid downward to reveal Roelof behind the wheel.

  “All ready?” he asked in greeting.

  “All ready,” I said.

  Roelof nodded as if he didn’t believe me and kicked the car forward into one of the demarcated parking bays.

  Hendrik clambered out of the back seat and did some athletic squats to show how much he hated being bundled into the back. His arm was in a sling and he held it with his other hand as if the sight of me brought back the pain. He gave me a warning glare. Kenneth climbed out of the other passenger door and removed his jacket as if he was about to start a fight. He tucked a lumpy cloth bundle under his arm. It jangled, and I guessed it contained the tools he was intending to use in performing his inspection.

  Piet gave us each a stern nod and twirled an unlit cigar between his fingers. His usual patina of assured calm was wearing thin. Chandler had been right about doing this here, where Piet would be a fish out of water, in a foreign country where everyone spoke a language he didn’t understand.

  “Melissa stayed behind at the hotel,” said Piet. “She looks forward to seeing you at dinner later.”

  “Doing her hair,” said Hendrik incredulously, and he looked at Robyn as if expecting that she would have something to add to this. Robyn gave a small understanding smile. It was hard to imagine two women less alike than the underwear model Melissa and the ex-felon Robyn, even when she was playing the part of girlfriend to one of the continent’s most notorious smugglers.

  Piet handed Billy Mabele and Chandler both a cigar. Billy Mabele stepped up to Piet and greeted him with an embrace and then held his arm as if the two of them were about to walk down the aisle.

  “Your big cats are ready and waiting,” said Chandler.

  “No problems?” asked Piet. “You loaded the extra stuff in with the cats?”

  “Not one. And yes, we did. The crate has been inspected and cleared for transit.”

  “We can check the crate?” asked Roelof.

  “All arranged. We have oiled the rusty cogs of Mozambican bureaucracy and have been promised a little privacy. We have arranged that Piet sign a few papers and use that as an excuse for us to perform final checks.”

  Chandler beamed at them. His enthusiasm was not returned.

  The warehouse was gloomy and echoed the sound of our feet back at us as we made our way to a desk in the corner where the shipping clerk was sorting through a jumble of papers as if he’d lost the one upon which his job depended.

  “Van Rensburg,” announced Billy Mabele as he presented Piet with his unlit cigar.

  “Van Rensburg,” confirmed Piet.

  “Give me a minute,” said the clerk with irritation, and he continued shuffling the papers about. He was a small man with big ears, and eyes supported on several dark rings.

  “While Mr Van Rensburg signs the papers,” said Roelof, “shall we go ahead?”

  �
�That alright with you, Mr Almeida?” asked Colonel Colchester. “If some of our party go ahead?”

  The clerk, whose right buttock was crushing a couple of hundred-dollar bills recently donated to him by the colonel, looked up at us. His eyes rested heavily on their bags of flesh.

  “Van Rensburg?” he said.

  “Van Rensburg, yes,” said Colonel Colchester. “Live animals. We brought them in yesterday.”

  “They’ll be loaded last,” said the clerk. “Through there.” He indicated the large open doors on the other side of the warehouse, and we all turned to look at the promising glow of evening light trickling through them.

  “Excellent,” said the colonel. Hendrik didn’t need any further invitation. He strode with big, athletic steps towards the light. “Why don’t you see if you can find the crate, Freddy? Take the others. Piet and I will sort out the paperwork.”

  The quay was a jumble of crates and shipping containers, piled up on top of one another to create a confusing maze of narrow paths. The storm we had seen out to sea swept in as we picked our way between the boxes, and the sun was extinguished as the gusts of wind rushed through the gaps like departed spirits howling down the alleyways.

  “They will be on the outer edge,” I said, as if I hadn’t spent the entire day loading them. Roelof walked beside me and he shivered as if he also felt the presence of the spirits. We reached the far edge of the city of boxes and stepped away from them over the broken surface of the quay. We turned back towards the boxes and Hendrik let out a cry of triumph.

  “There,” he said, and pointed. Standing away from the rest of the crates and boxes, positioned as if someone had wanted them to be spotted, were two wooden crates, each about the size of a luxury four-by-four vehicle, joined to create one large crate. The sides of the crate had neat rows of breathing holes at about head height, and as Hendrik led the way at a jog, the wind blew a collection of rubbish up against them and plastered a sheet of newspaper against one.

  Hendrik stuck his face up to a breathing hole, then immediately recoiled and retched.

  “Fuck, it stinks,” he said, and then stuck his face back against the crate and tried peering in through the hole. “Can’t see shit,” he said.

  Roelof pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth and also tried peering in through a breathing hole, but there was very little light making its way in as the evening darkened.

  “Come, boet,” said Hendrik, and he banged the side of the crate. Roelof gave him an irritated glare.

  “Don’t rile up the wild animals, Hendrik,” he said, “they’ll break through that wood and then you’ll regret it.”

  “There’s a metal cage,” said Kenneth. “They won’t be breaking through that.”

  “How do we do this?” said Roelof.

  I brandished a screwdriver.

  “We’ll have to open it up,” I said.

  Kenneth unrolled his cloth bundle and revealed a set of wrenches. Roelof started to inspect the box. At the corner he found the points where the front panels were latched to the side. He reached out a delicate hand and tested the latch.

  “We could open it here,” he said. “There are hinges on the side. It’s like a door.”

  Hendrik was in favour of skipping the talking. He had the top latch in his swollen meatball of a fist and popped it open with a loud crack. The second latch gave him a little more trouble. Kenneth and I took a few steps back and Roelof watched me with suspicion. Hendrik manfully swung the front panel to the side like a huge door, and we all stepped back instinctively.

  “Fuck me,” said Hendrik, and he clasped his hands to his chest in a surprisingly effeminate gesture. “Fuck me,” he repeated in a whisper.

  It was the male lion on this side of the box, and although he was on the small end of the scale, he was a magnificent beast. The short fur of his body seemed to ripple over the muscles beneath as he rose to a standing position, and his great mane swayed like an outrageous hairstyle under a blow dryer as he shook his head and then tilted it back to look up at the sky beyond our heads.

  “The male,” said Roelof.

  We gazed at the lion for almost a full minute. Hendrik pulled out his mobile phone and took a photograph. Nobody had noticed that Billy Mabele was standing fifty metres back from the lions with his sober girlfriend leaning against him. Which was a relief, because I thought it might seem strange for a notorious smuggler to keep his distance from the merchandise.

  “That the panel there?” asked Kenneth, nodding towards the thick base upon which the cage was mounted. I held up my screwdriver for him, but Kenneth ignored it again and gazed with consternation at the lion. Opening the panel would mean standing uncomfortably close to the beast.

  Hendrik seemed to have forgotten our purpose, and having overcome his initial awe, he stepped towards the cage and waved his hands in the air to get the lion to look at him. Hendrik didn’t like being overlooked, even by an animal. The lion didn’t respond, but his nostrils quivered as if he’d picked up a scent. Hendrik moved directly into the lion’s line of sight. The majestic beast settled back down, rested his head onto his paws and gazed dully at the ground a few metres from the cage.

  “There’s something wrong with him,” said Hendrik. “He’s been drugged or something.”

  He knelt down on the oily ground before the cage and started rubbing his fingers together in the animal’s line of sight as one might offer food to a small domestic pet.

  “Not even hungry,” said Hendrik. “Something very wrong with him.”

  “Don’t stick your hands in the bars,” said Roelof, “or you’ll discover just how hungry he is.”

  Hendrik scowled and pushed his hand up to just a few inches from the bars to show how much he respected Roelof’s advice. Roelof took my screwdriver from me and stepped up to the cage.

  “There are three panels,” I explained. “We could start with this one.” I indicated the panel furthest from the lion’s head. Roelof ignored my suggestion and started working on the central panel. Kenneth fitted a screwdriver head onto a ratchet from his bag of tools and joined Roelof. A few minutes later, the wooden panel came loose to reveal a metal box. Roelof peered at it.

  “Doesn’t look right,” he said.

  “It doesn’t?”

  Roelof and Kenneth grabbed the handles and pulled. The box was lighter than they expected and slid out easily. It dropped to the ground with a crash. The lion lifted its head as if only now noticing our presence. We looked at the box.

  “Where is Mabele?” asked Roelof, looking around.

  “I think he’s having some girl trouble,” I said. Robyn was remonstrating with him, in what might have been an improvised cover for the fact he refused to approach the lions. Roelof frowned. My comment to Chandler about playing to an amateur audience came back to me. I regretted it.

  “Open it,” exclaimed Hendrik, and Kenneth obliged by undoing the clasps.

  Roelof turned away from the domestic squabble Billy Mabele was engaged in and helped to lift the lid. They revealed a neat pile of Milkor M32 lightweight grenade launchers. Hendrik reached to pick one up, but as he did so a call from behind us stopped him. Colonel Colchester and Piet van Rensburg were bearing down upon us. Piet’s large mid-section had burst through his linen jacket and his tie looked like a tomato sauce spill down the front of his shirt. His cigar was lit and his big face was being split open by a huge smile. Beside him the colonel was billowing smoke and looking like the casting director had decided to go with contrast. Where Piet was a circle, the colonel was a line. The colonel’s clothing was impeccable, but Piet’s looked as if he might need a costume change before dinner. As they approached us, a few dark patches appeared on the colonel’s jacket, and a roll of thunder announced the arrival of the storm. Piet’s attention was drawn by the sight of the open cage and the form of the lion in the shadows.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed before they were adequately within earshot.

  Roelof
turned and looked uncertainly from Piet to Hendrik to Kenneth. Piet hadn’t made it clear which of them was doing something to offend him, or whether it was simply his enthusiasm for the moment that had him shouting. But I was not worrying about that, I had noticed the two headlights appearing from the thin sliver of road that ran beside the warehouse. They were approaching us unhurriedly. The lights gave Piet and the colonel a silver lining, and the smoke from their cigars flashed a warning briefly before being snatched away by the wind. Chandler noticed the light and turned as he walked. Piet only had eyes for the lion, and perhaps for the open box of grenade launchers. Chandler turned back, and I saw the lines of tension in the way his strides quickened. He reached Billy Mabele and his girlfriend and ushered them forwards. They had also seen the headlights. The rain started to fall heavily, and the warehouse disappeared behind a brightly lit curtain of water.

  “Better close that box up,” I said to Roelof, and moved to swing the open flap back into place.

  “What the fuck?” said Hendrik. “We want to check those guns.”

  “Better do that later,” I said. “We’ve got company.”

  Kenneth had seen the lights. He closed the box.

  “Magnificent,” said Piet as he and the colonel arrived. “Keep that open for us Freddy, I’d like to see for myself.”

  “Best to close it for now,” said the colonel, and as Piet turned to protest, there was the sudden blast of a siren from the car behind them, and a blue light started swinging across the wall of crates.

  I slid the box under the cage as quickly as I could and turned back to face the lights. The others were all frozen to the spot and stood like shop mannequins silhouetted against the white screen of falling water provided by the vehicle’s lights. The blue light was spreading a sense of fear which deepened with each sweep. Roelof was closest to me.