Ivory Nation

by Andy Maslen

  ‘You could say that. Mim Robey gave it to me.’

  Gabriel peered at the puckered ribbon of skin.

  ‘Looks like something a golok would do.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s what we called a machete in the SAS.’

  Stella nodded.

  ‘Yes. That.’

  They spent a few minutes checking out the knife, machete and bullet wounds on each other’s skin, before Gabriel, laughing, changed the subject.

  ‘Now that we’ve established we’ve all been in the wars,’ he said, ‘Stella, what did you get from the boffins at the university?’

  ‘They’ll have a report for me on the soil sample by tomorrow. I’ve couriered a paint sample to Lucian, too. He’s the top forensic scientist at Paddington Green. No idea how long that’ll take, but the lad in the business centre said the courier service to the UK is “One hundred per cent efficient” – his words – so we’ll just have to hope and pray. You?’

  ‘Eli and I reckon the best next step, for both our investigations, is to hit the bars. Not the swanky tourist ones—’

  ‘The dives where the pond life hang out,’ Stella finished for him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gabriel said. ‘Forgot you’re a cop for a minute.’

  ‘Must be my cossie,’ Stella said, winking at Eli, who grinned back.

  ‘Tonight?’

  Stella nodded.

  ‘I was on the phone to my boss earlier. She seems to think she’s paying for me to be out here photographing wildlife. I need to find out what I can and get back to London.’

  ‘I suspect that where we’re going, you’ll see plenty of wildlife,’ Gabriel said. ‘Scavengers…’

  ‘Predators,’ Eli added, joining in.

  ‘And lots of creepy crawlies,’ Stella finished. ‘Eight? Nine?’

  ‘Nine,’ Gabriel said.

  23

  At 9.15 p.m., Gabriel parked outside one of the downtown hotels. He retrieved a briefcase from the boot then whistled to a couple of skinny kids in Adidas T-shirts, shiny football shorts and sandals and held out two five-dollar bills.

  ‘Watch the car for us, boys,’ he said. ‘If it’s unmarked when we get back there’s another five each for you, OK?’

  ‘OK, Mister,’ the taller of the two said. ‘No problem!’

  ‘Good. Now, another question. Where do the gangsters hang out in G-City?’

  ‘Gangsters?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, the bad guys.’

  The shorter of the two boys shrugged.

  ‘What are you talking about? No gangsters here, man.’

  ‘Come on,’ Gabriel said with a smile. ‘Don’t tell me a streetwise dude like you doesn’t know where the action is?’

  The boy grinned and held out his palm.

  ‘Questions, free. Answers, five dollar.’

  Smiling, Gabriel proffered the extra note.

  ‘Spill.’

  The boy slipped the note into his pocket.

  ‘Oasis Lounge. Very shiny. On Gandukuni Street.’

  Gabriel patted his informant on the shoulder and rejoined Eli and Stella.

  ‘No need for a bar crawl,’ he said. ‘Our friend back there told me the place we need to hit.’

  With the car as secure as they could make it, the trio set off towards Old Naledi, the centre of what the guidebook described as Gaborone’s version of Boston’s Combat Zone.

  Gabriel and Eli wore the universal outfit of hired muscle the world over – jeans, boots, black tees and lightweight black jackets. Stella walked between them, head held high, sharply dressed in a dark-grey silk jacket and matching trousers, plus four-inch heels that brought her up to Gabriel’s height. She swung a black briefcase from her right hand.

  Stella stumbled on an uneven patch of pavement.

  ‘These bloody heels!’

  ‘You’re the big boss,’ Eli said. ‘We can’t have you in combat boots, now can we?’

  ‘Cheeky mare! Just make sure any trouble gets out of our way fast, cause there’s no way I can fight in these.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You could always take them off and stab the fuckers.’

  Gabriel had trodden many such streets in his career, some as a soldier, others as a department agent. Reckoning that two former Special Forces soldiers and a clearly badass Met Police detective would be more than a match for any low-level gangbangers, he walked on, confident they’d find what they were looking for without incident.

  The fact that he and Eli were carrying George Taylor’s pistols tucked into their waistbands was also a comfort.

  As they walked, the three Brits shared stories, bantered and commented on the sights and sounds of this part of Africa, new to all of them. Insects competed with frogs to make the loudest racket, their overlapping squeaks, buzzes, rasps and chirrups a continuous high-pitched drone.

  In Gabriel’s experience, inner-city drinking establishments that didn’t bother with bouncers sent out plenty of other signals to potential troublemakers. He remembered a sawdust-floored Republican bar in the Falls Road in Belfast. Posing as a Russian arms dealer, he’d had to fight to control a fluttering heartbeat as all around him the ‘men of violence’ drank Guinness, ate Tayto-brand crisps and planned attacks on their Protestant neighbours, the British Army or the RUC. McGinty’s front door had been unguarded.

  Oasis Lounge fell squarely into the same category as McGinty’s. Outside, young black men leaned against shiny BMWs and Mercedes with oversized chrome wheels and blacked-out windows. The cars’ stereos were turned up loud, pumping the fast, bass-heavy jazz the locals called Afropop into the warm evening air. Girls in vest-tops, micro-miniskirts and heels far higher than Stella’s stood in groups of three or four, laughing and smoking and swigging beer from long-necked bottles.

  From inside, yet more music set the air vibrating: harmonising guitars over a lively dance beat and a high-pitched male voice singing in Tsetswana. Above the double doors, neon palm trees flicked from side to side, flanking the name of the bar, which was picked out in orange and lime green. ‘Oasis’ flashed in random patterns designed to give anyone looking for too long a migraine.

  ‘Confidence,’ Gabriel muttered, just loud enough for Eli and Stella to hear, as they approached the group of men bantering under the sole streetlight.

  He noted approvingly the way Stella strode one pace ahead of him and Eli, head held high.

  ‘This bar’s not for tourists,’ one of the young guys said, pushing himself off the bonnet of his Beemer. ‘Plenty of upscale joints in Extension Ten.’

  Stella whipped her head round and glared at him, closing the distance between them to less than a foot for good measure.

  ‘Good. Because I’m not a tourist. Now get out of my fucking way.’

  Gabriel closed in to Stella’s left side, as Eli mirrored the move on the right.

  The young man hesitated, then kissed his teeth with a raised chin and sidled back to his friends.

  Ignoring the threatening murmurs, Gabriel followed Stella inside. The place smelled of expensive perfume, aftershave and tobacco smoke. Subtle lighting created an intimate atmosphere, enhanced by circular leather-benched booths around the walls.

  A band occupied a corner of the bar, painted black to demarcate the performance space and framed by two pole-mounted PA speakers. Two guitarists, a bass player, drummer and singer were playing a lilting mid-tempo number. The singer nodded at Gabriel as he caught her eye.

  They attracted a fair number of curious and even hostile gazes from the all-black clientele, but that was to be expected. Clearly this was the right place. Tailored suits and expensive-looking designer gear were much in evidence. Lots of gold, plenty of ice sparkling at women’s necks, wrists and earlobes, chunky watches on display beneath pulled-back shirt cuffs. Tall glasses of champagne, ice buckets, cigars.

  ‘Follow my lead,’ Stella said.

  Stella marched up to the bar as if she owned the place. She raised an index finger and crooked it when the barman turne
d her way. Gabriel and Eli turned outwards and surveyed the room.

  Stella was gratified to see that most of the starers turned back to their own conversations, drinks or card games.

  ‘Yes, madam, what can I get you?’ the barman asked her.

  ‘Champagne. A bottle. And two glasses.’

  He raised his finely arched eyebrows.

  ‘Two? Not three? Is one of your,’ a pause, ‘friends not drinking?’

  ‘Neither of them is. And they’re not my friends. They’re my employees.’

  ‘Then—’

  She leant over the bar and dropped her voice.

  ‘One for me and one for the guy I need to talk to about ivory.’

  He stood a little straighter.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Madam. I’m sorry. Let me get you the champagne.’

  He arrived back in front of her a few minutes later with a bottle of Moët in a sweating ice bucket and two flutes on a tray.

  ‘That will be one hundred dollars US, please, Madam,’ he said with a small smile.

  Stella turned to her left and spoke to Gabriel.

  ‘Case.’

  He nodded, maintaining the unsmiling expression beloved of personal protection officers all over the world. The case made a satisfyingly loud thump as he plonked it down on the wooden bar top.

  Stella popped the catches and lifted the lid, making sure the barman got an eyeful of the neatly arranged, blue-banded stacks of fifty-dollar bills. She slid two from beneath one of the paper ribbons and handed them over. As he extended long, delicate fingers to take them, she slid a third note into the breast pocket of his white jacket.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, closing the lid. ‘Send him over to my table, would you? I have a business proposition for him.’

  The barman’s gaze flicked over her left shoulder before he regained eye contact with her. He thanked her for the tip and turned away to serve another customer. She waited at the bar while Gabriel and Eli found an empty booth then beckoned her over.

  Stella opened the champagne and filled the two flutes to within half an inch of their rims, before scrunching the bottle back into the ice.

  ‘You think he bought the act?’ Eli asked.

  ‘Yep. Whoever he is, our man’s in the room. Or someone who can take us to him is. Just wait.’

  She took a sip of the champagne. Remembered a bottle she’d shared outside a bar in Taormina on her honeymoon. The man with whom she’d shared it was dead now. So was their daughter. But that was in the past. She slammed the heavy door in her mind that protected her from her memories.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  24

  Bald pate shining in the gleam of the recessed lighting, the man on his way to their table slipped his six-foot-plus, heavily-muscled body between the tables with a dancer’s grace.

  When he reached the table, he smiled and bowed. Gabriel caught a glint of gold on his left wrist beneath the French cuff fastened with a polished knob of white.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said to Stella, ignoring Gabriel and Eli. ‘I am Peter Mafombe.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘This is my place. May I join you?’

  Stella held out a hand, palm upwards.

  ‘Be my guest, Mr Mafombe.’

  He pulled out a seat on the open side of the booth and leaned across the table. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

  ‘I am afraid you are labouring under a misapprehension, Miss…?’

  ‘Call me Joyce.’

  He smiled again.

  ‘Joyce. There is no ivory trade in Botswana. It is banned under CITES. That’s the—’

  ‘Convention on Trade in Endangered Species, yes, I know.’

  Gabriel had one eye on Mafombe, and one ear on his conversation with Stella. The other two organs he employed to survey the rest of the bar. Eli would be doing the same.

  He saw fewer pretty young women in revealing outfits. And more muscular men standing in small groups, glancing in his direction.

  The double doors, which had been flung wide when they entered, were now closed. The band was still playing, but the musicians were exchanging worried glances.

  Gabriel’s pulse ticked up a notch. He let his right hand, currently lying on the tabletop, slide off the polished wood and rest on his lap. Just below his waistband.

  ‘Then, forgive me,’ Mafombe said, ‘but why do you come to my bar asking about ivory?’

  ‘Because blood diamonds are too hot these days and I need a new asset class to invest in.’

  ‘Blood diamonds? I have not heard of them. Are they some kind of ruby?’

  ‘Right!’ Stella said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve had enough of this. We’re leaving.’

  Gabriel and Eli stood in a fast, coordinated movement that had Mafombe rearing back in his chair. Behind the bar owner, the men Gabriel had been observing straightened their postures. He saw hands edging towards pockets, or the backs of waistbands. Prepared himself.

  Mafombe stood too, turning to pat the air at the men readying themselves for something more kinetic than playing cards and chatting up women. They stood down.

  Mafombe turned back to Stella, all smiles. He stroked a palm across his skull. Pointed at the second flute.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Did the barman tell you who it’s for?’

  ‘He did.’

  Stella shrugged as she sat back down.

  ‘Then you know the answer,’ she said.

  Gabriel glared at a couple of the young men still arrowing hostile glances in their direction, then lowered himself into the leather banquette’s embrace once more.

  ‘I will take half a glass,’ Mafombe said, finally, lifting the champagne to his lips.

  Gabriel watched the man’s Adam’s apple hop as he swallowed. Visualised the blood vessels pulsing beneath the skin.

  Mafombe placed the glass on the table with a click.

  ‘Blood diamonds, eh?’ he asked, placing his fingertips on the base of the flute and circling them to swirl the remaining champagne. ‘Where did you used to get them?’

  ‘Sierra Leone. The DRC. Ivory Coast. Wherever the sellers weren’t too greedy.’

  She sipped her own champagne and sat back with a smile, a high-roller in the murky world of illegal commodities. Gabriel mentally revised his opinion of her – upwards – once again.

  ‘But no longer,’ Mafombe said.

  ‘Like I said. Too hot right now.’

  ‘And ivory isn’t?’

  Stella smiled.

  ‘Let’s just say it’s time my organisation diversified its investment portfolio. Now, can you take me to the man whose champagne you’re drinking or not?’

  Mafombe checked his watch; a Rolex, Gabriel now saw.

  ‘Why don’t you sit back and enjoy the show? I have to make some calls. In an hour we can go, yes?’

  Stella inclined her head.

  ‘One more thing, Mr Mafombe.’

  ‘Please, call me Peter.’

  ‘Peter, I’d like you to have a word with your friends over there,’ she said, jerking her chin over his shoulder. ‘Tell them to back off. Otherwise I fear for their safety. My colleagues here are well-armed and well-trained. You can guess where.’

  Gabriel fixed Mafombe with a dead-eyed stare. The guy was probably making an educated guess. South Africa. Wrong. Russia. Wrong. America. Wrong. Israel. Right. Belgium. Wrong. The UK. Right. People like ‘Joyce’ didn’t wander into places like the Oasis Lounge without some extremely effective protection.

  As he got to his feet, Mafombe smiled down at Gabriel, acknowledging his presence for the first time. He looked at Eli, then back at Stella.

  ‘Enjoy the music, Joyce. I’ll send over some beers for your,’ a beat, ‘colleagues.’

  Gabriel watched as he threaded his way through the crowd, pausing here and there to whisper into cocked ears. Stances softened. Stares drifted away. Laughter replaced silence. The bar exhaled a sigh of relief.

  ‘Ever do any amateur dra
matics? Because that was a bravura performance,’ Gabriel said to Stella once they were alone again.

  She grinned.

  ‘I played Tinker Bell in a school production of Peter Pan once,’ she said.

  ‘Is Captain Hook going to come through?’

  ‘I think so. The barman will have told him how much cash I brought in here. Money talks with guys like that. He’ll want a cut of whatever deal goes down.’

  Peter Mafombe was as good as his word. He slid into the booth next to Eli exactly sixty minutes after their first encounter. He spoke across her to Stella.

  ‘You are in luck, Joyce. My colleague wants to meet you.’

  She inclined her head.

  ‘Good. When and where?’

  He waggled his head from side to side.

  ‘Not so fast, Joyce. There is an arrangement fee.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He is not a man to be hurried. And he wants to be sure you are serious. Twenty thousand US. The meeting will be next week some time. I will tell you when and where once he has the payment.’

  Stella stared at him. Gabriel registered the relaxed pose and muscle tone. How was she doing it? Deep in enemy territory and she looked like she was having a drink in her local.

  ‘Five thousand,’ she said.

  ‘Fifteen is the lowest he can accept. He told me so himself.’

  ‘Seven and a half.’

  ‘You expect me to take such a piss-poor offer to my colleague? He is the big man hereabouts in ivory. Thirteen.’

  ‘Nine.’

  Gabriel could see where the haggling would end up. He assumed Mafombe could, too.

  ‘Eleven.’

  Gabriel heard the hint of a question mark. Fatal.

  Stella shook her head.

  ‘Nine,’ she repeated, more firmly this time.

  ‘– and seven fifty?’

  ‘– and a half.’

  She reached for her glass and drained it. Then turned to Gabriel, moved closer and whispered into his ear.

  ‘Lovely weather we’re having for the time of year.’

  He nodded, allowing a smile to steal across his face. He glanced round Stella at Mafombe, then placed his lips close to her ear.