Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  “What if there are other people in the house?” Samantha asked as they reviewed the plans.

  “Bring them all in,” Kubu replied. “We can let them go later if we have to. I don’t want anyone slipping through our net.”

  Mabaku nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope we catch the right bastards,” he said. “This whole mess has been going on too long.”

  * * *

  KUBU’S PHONE RANG at seven o’clock on Wednesday morning. The head of the SWAT teams reported that they’d brought in three men—their targets, Clarence Khumalo and Boy Sedombo, as well as a third man, who was in the apartment with Khumalo.

  “This third man. Is he Chinese?” Kubu asked.

  “No. He’s black. But I get the sense that he’s a foreigner.”

  “Keep an eye on them,” Kubu said. “I’ll be there just after eight. Please let Detective Khama know as well. I’ll contact the director.”

  * * *

  KUBU DECIDED TO interview Sedombo first because he was the younger of the two men and unlikely to be the leader. Kubu wanted as much information as possible before tackling Khumalo.

  The first hour was unproductive. Sedombo denied having anything to do with Tomale.

  “I’ve never heard of her,” he said repeatedly.

  He also denied he was involved in any smuggling.

  “I work as an auto mechanic. You can ask my boss.”

  Kubu took the details and left the room to ask Samantha to follow up. In return, she handed Kubu a printout.

  “These are his bank statements for the last year. Some interesting deposits there.” She handed Kubu a second stack of paper. “And these are Khumalo’s statements. Some nice matches between the two. Seems cash is king.”

  Kubu spent a few minutes looking at what Samantha had given him. She’d taken the time to annotate them, so finding the withdrawals and associated deposits was easy. However, there were a number of sizable cash deposits into Khumalo’s account that had no source.

  “There’s something else you should see,” Samantha said. “Come with me.”

  She led Kubu to the evidence room, where, after completing the formalities, she retrieved a large evidence bag containing a briefcase. “They found it at Khumalo’s apartment, under the bed the other man was sleeping in.”

  She slipped on some latex gloves and took the briefcase out of the bag.

  “I picked the locks. They weren’t very good.”

  She opened the top. Kubu gasped. The briefcase was full of American dollars, mainly hundreds and fifties.

  “There’s a fortune in there,” he said.

  “Nearly a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

  There were also two passports, both with the same picture. One was a Nigerian passport sporting the name Bernard Oni, and the other was a South African one with the name Bernard Qolo. Kubu flipped through them quickly.

  “Neither has a Botswana entry stamp,” Kubu said. “The man’s in the country illegally, and at least one of these passports is a fake. Good!”

  * * *

  “RRA SEDOMBO,” KUBU said, after returning to the interview room. “Please could you explain these five cash deposits for ten thousand pula.” He read off the dates from the printout.

  Sedombo hemmed and hawed and eventually came up with a story that he’d done some special work on a rich man’s car.

  “Five times?” Kubu asked.

  Sedombo nodded. “It needed a lot of work.”

  “What is the name of the man who hired you?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Where did he live, then?”

  Sedombo shrugged.

  “Okay, where did you do the work? And what sort of car was it?”

  “It was at the garage where I work. On Sundays.”

  “And the type of car?”

  “A BMW seven series.”

  “And the color?”

  “Black,” Sedombo stammered.

  “Do you know a Clarence Khumalo?”

  Sedombo looked panic-stricken. “No. I mean yes. I mean, I’ve heard of him.”

  “Was it Khumalo who gave you these big amounts of cash?”

  “No. It was the owner of the car.”

  Kubu pushed Khumalo’s bank statements in front of Sedombo. “Look here,” he said. “Every time your ‘car owner’ paid you, Khumalo withdrew the identical amount of cash from his bank account. I’m going to speak to him in a few minutes. I’m sure he’ll confirm that he paid you these amounts. Then you’ll be caught in a lie. And I’m sure that you know lying to the police is a major offense.” He paused. “Have you seen the inside of our jails? They’re not very nice.”

  Kubu stood up to leave.

  “It was Khumalo,” Sedombo whispered. “Please don’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me.”

  “Kill you?” Kubu asked. “Have you seen him kill people?”

  “No, never. But he’ll beat me up if he knows I told you.”

  Kubu spent the next ten minutes extracting more information about Khumalo and what Sedombo did to deserve the payments. Eventually he confessed that he worked with people in South Africa to move rhino horns out of the country.

  “What do you do for them?”

  “I pick stuff up in Groot Marico, bring it into Botswana, and pack it for shipping.”

  “Where does it go to?”

  “I don’t know. Khumalo handles that.”

  * * *

  ARMED WITH THE information from Sedombo, it didn’t take Kubu long to get Khumalo to confess to also being involved in smuggling rhino horn from South Africa. His job was to coordinate and manage the operation in Botswana. He also confirmed that Sedombo was just a messenger.

  Then Kubu turned to asking about the man who was sleeping in Khumalo’s apartment. Immediately, Khumalo shook his head. “I’m not saying anything. Just a friend of a friend who needed a place to sleep.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No. But it’s Sam, I think.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Just someone I know from a bar. Don’t know his name, either. We call him Mick.”

  “So, let me understand this. You know someone from a bar, but you don’t know his name. He asks you to let a friend of his stay with you, but you don’t know his name, either. Is that right?”

  Khumalo nodded.

  “Well, let me tell you something,” Kubu said, leaning forward. “These big cash deposits into your account, including one from two days ago—I think your friend gives them to you for managing his business here in Gabs. And I’m going to get his bank accounts and tie his withdrawals to your deposits. I’m sure the judge will be very interested in that.”

  He stared at the forlorn Khumalo.

  “Who is he? What’s his name?”

  Khumalo just shook his head.

  “And what about Kgosi Ramala?” Kubu asked. “Why did you kill him?”

  “Kill Ramala? I’ve never killed anyone. And I’d be mad to kill a witch doctor.”

  “You know Kgosi Ramala?”

  “Of course. Everyone knows of him. But I’ve never spoken to him.”

  “And Christopher Collins?”

  Khumalo looked blank. “Who?”

  Kubu was sure that Khumalo didn’t know who Collins was.

  “One last question for now,” Kubu continued. “What are you doing with a hundred thousand dollars in your apartment?”

  Khumalo looked as though he could fall off his chair. “A hundred thousand dollars? I don’t have any dollars. It must be Bernard’s.”

  “So it’s not Sam now. And what is Bernard’s last name?”

  Khumalo didn’t say anything.

  “If you can’t explain how that money got to be in your apartment,” Kubu said, “I’ll have to assume it’s been stolen. And that you stole it.”

  * * *

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, MR. ONI, or is it Qolo? Or perhaps neither.” Kubu had just completed the formalities for recording the interview. He sat down
.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble. Illegally in the country; trafficking a controlled substance, namely rhino horn; possession of undisclosed foreign currency; and murder.”

  “Murder? I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “In addition to rhino horn, we believe that you’ve also been exporting indigenous Botswana plants to China in contravention of biopiracy laws. We also think you killed a Kgosi Ramala and possibly a Christopher Collins in order to acquire plants that have the potential to prolong life. That could be much more valuable than rhino horn.”

  “Bullshit! I’ve never touched any plants, and I’ve never heard of those two people. You’re bullshitting me.”

  “Let me lay things out for you, Mr. Oni. When you’ve heard what I have to say, I’m sure you’ll find cooperating the best course of action.”

  * * *

  “DIRECTOR, I THINK I was wrong.” Kubu said. “I was certain the murders and the smuggling were linked, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “You mean this is all a coincidence?”

  “Yes, I think so. I know you don’t believe in them, Director, and neither do I. But I’m convinced this is an exception. There is a rhino horn gang—those are the four we have in custody, as well as the ones they’ve got in China. And there are people interested in plants promising immortality, but it’s a different group. The Chinese involved in that are here in Botswana—Ho, the men who abducted Ramala, and maybe Chan at the embassy, and a few others.”

  “I still think they’re linked,” Mabaku responded. “Go and spend another day putting pressure on them all. Tell them we’ll see them die in prison if they don’t talk.”

  “Director, we can charge Tomale, Sedombo, and Khumalo right now, but I’m not sure about the fourth man. Let Samantha and me follow up a few leads before we go after him again. Anyway, I’ll keep them all in custody. It’ll soften them up to stew for another day in our fine accommodation.”

  Mabaku stared at Kubu. “Okay. One more day before we throw the book at the men downstairs.”

  “And the woman,” Samantha said.

  CHAPTER 49

  First thing the next morning, Samantha went to Kubu’s office and they planned what to do.

  “I looked at the motor vehicle database last night,” she said, “but you can only search it on owner’s name or ID number and car registration number. You can’t search by vehicle type or color or vehicle make. It’s going to take forever if we have to go through it vehicle by vehicle. Edison never came up with Festus Moeng’s vehicle using that approach.”

  Kubu reached for his phone and punched in an internal number. “Helenka? Good morning. I wonder if you can help us with a computer problem.” He paused for a few moments, thanked her, and hung up.

  “She’ll be here in a minute. If anyone can work this out, she can.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER Helenka came to Samantha’s office with a memory stick.

  “You know Excel?” she asked.

  Samantha nodded.

  “Okay.” Helenka handed her the stick and left without another word. A bit puzzled, Samantha inserted the stick and opened the file on it. It was a large spreadsheet with thousands of entries—probably all the light motor vehicles registered in Gaborone, Samantha decided. The headings included all the attributes captured in the registration documents: the identity or passport number of the owner, nationality, and address; vehicle make, color, registration number, and year of first registration.

  Samantha smiled. “Thank you, Helenka,” she said out loud.

  It took her a couple of minutes to sort the spreadsheet by vehicle type. Then she started checking which were registered as single or double cabs before she realized that the owners may not have included this detail on their applications. There must be an easier way, she decided.

  After a few moments’ thought, she sorted the spreadsheet again, this time on nationality of owner. There were less than a hundred with the People’s Republic of China as their nationality, and when she selected the model type and checked which could be double cabs, she was left with just over twenty possibilities. Of those, only six had the light colors that might fit Muru’s description.

  She printed out the names and addresses of the owners, as well as the vehicle registration numbers, and set off, sticking her head into Kubu’s office on the way out to tell him what she was up to. Kubu listened to what she’d done, nodded, and wished her luck.

  She realized she needed it. Maybe the vehicle used to abduct Ramala wasn’t owned by a Chinese individual; maybe it was owned by a company. Maybe it wasn’t registered in the Gaborone area. Maybe the vehicle was from South Africa. At least she was pretty sure it wasn’t a stolen vehicle—she’d checked through the list of those while waiting for Helenka.

  All these possibilities bounced around Samantha’s head as she drove off to the first address.

  * * *

  THE HOUSE WAS in an upper-middle-class neighborhood and protected by a wall and electric gates. She rang the intercom, waited half a minute, and then tried again. There was a click, and an accented voice said, in English, “Yes? What you want?”

  “Hello, I’m from the traffic police. I need to do a routine check on your vehicle registration. It will only take a few minutes.”

  There was silence, but through the gate she saw the front door open and a man walk down the driveway. He stopped some distance away. “How I know you police?” he asked.

  Samantha held up her identification, and the man walked closer so that he could read it. After a few moments he pressed a remote control and the gate slid open just enough to allow her in before he closed it again. “What you want?” he repeated.

  “I’m Detective Khama. Are you”—she checked her list—“Mr. C. H. Dong?”

  The man nodded.

  “There’ve been some problems with vehicle registrations. Some numbers have been duplicated by the computer. I need to check your vehicle against my information.”

  “You want see vehicle? In garage. I bought. Cash. Nothing wrong with registration.” He made no move toward the garage.

  “I just need to check it. Then I’ll leave.”

  The man seemed to be considering his options. She didn’t have a search warrant, so if he refused, there was nothing she could do about it. But why would he do that if he’s got nothing to hide? Samantha wondered.

  “Okay. You come.” He walked off toward the garage door, which opened with another press of the remote.

  The vehicle parked there was an Isuzu KB double cab. The color was a light metallic blue. Samantha swallowed. This could be it. She walked around the vehicle, but there were no stickers on any of the windows. She asked the owner to lift the hood so that she could check the engine number. She had no idea where to look, but fortunately it was on a plate in an obvious position. Finally, she took a picture with her cell phone, in the hope that Muru might react to it.

  “Hey! Why you take picture?” The man seemed suddenly agitated.

  “Just for my records. Everything is in order. Your registration is fine.”

  He digested that, apparently uncertain how to react. A woman came out of the front door and called out something in Chinese, and he answered her sharply before turning back to Samantha. “You go now,” he said, pointing to the gate.

  “Yes. Thank you for your help.”

  Once the gate closed behind her, Samantha felt relief. Either she’d upset the man or he’d been hiding something. Either way, she was pleased to be out from behind the walls and the electric gate.

  She put a question mark next to the vehicle on her list.

  * * *

  THE NEXT VEHICLE on her list was in a less affluent part of town, and she could walk up to the door and knock. To her surprise, it was opened by a black man. Samantha showed him her identification, gave him the speech about duplicate car registrations, and then said, “I’m looking for a Rra L. E. Sin. Is this the right address?”

  “Yes, Rra Sin lives here, but he’s n
ot in at the moment. I’m Jonas. I just work here.”

  “Is the car here?”

  “Yes. Rra Sin went out with another man.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Jonas looked dubious. “I’m not sure Rra Sin would like that.”

  “I just want to check the license disk. It will take a minute and save me another trip here.” She smiled at him. “It would be a big help.”

  Jonas shrugged. “You won’t touch anything? Come through to the back; the side gate’s locked.”

  They walked through the house to the kitchen and out the back door. The vehicle, parked under a carport, was a beige color, not metallic, and had several dents and scratches. The whole situation struck Samantha as wrong for Chinese smugglers, but she had to check. She walked up to the passenger side to check the registration and inhaled sharply when she saw the large red and gold sticker on the back window. She covered her surprise by asking, “Chinese flag?”

  The man nodded. “Rra Sin is very proud of his country. Always telling people how great it is.”

  Samantha took a picture and checked the model and registration number. “What does Rra Sin do?”

  Jonas shrugged.

  “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

  Jonas shook his head. “You done?”

  Samantha nodded, and he led her back through the house.

  When Jonas opened the door, a man was walking up the path toward them. He was Asian, at least six foot, and well built. He glared at Samantha and Jonas.

  “Where’s Sin? Who’s she?”

  “Mr. Sin is out. She’s—”

  “I’m just leaving,” Samantha interrupted. She nodded to the man, brushed past him, and headed for the street. She sensed he was staring at her as she walked to her car.

  Although she’d recognized him at once, she had no intention of taking him on alone. He was the man who sometimes called himself Ho and sometimes called himself Hairong.

  CHAPTER 50

  Samantha took her time leaving, opening the driver’s window and fiddling with the ignition keys. She wanted to be sure that Ho went into the house before she moved. Then she pulled off and headed down the street, but made a U-turn as soon as she was out of sight and drove slowly back until she could see the street in front of the house. Then she pulled over next to a group of shrubs and phoned Kubu.