by Alex MacBeth
They slowed down and wound down the window as they reached the boom barrier. “IDs please, gentlemen,” said Comandante Antonio, not recognising the men in the car.
“Comandante Antonio,” said Felisberto peeping through the window. Comandante Antonio leaned in closer to see who was calling his name. Palma began to move in the trunk. “I don’t know why he had to bring that goat,” said Felisberto, lifting his eyebrows exaggeratedly. Comandante Antonio waved them on. A few minutes later Felisberto opened the trunk and pulled out the protesting, purple-faced Palma. The Comandante un-gagged him and pushed him onto the rear passenger seat.
“Why did you ungag him?” Naiss protested.
“There’s no more roadblocks,” argued Felisberto.
“Think you can hide me in the bush, hey?” said Palma to the Comandante, as Raquel drove with Naissone in the front and Palma and Felisberto sat in the back. “We’re not going to hide you in the bush, we’re going to kill you,” said Naissone coolly. “Why would we hide you? We’re not sure how we are going to kill you, but there is one certainty, we know who will kill you,” added Naiss, rubbing his hands together.
“Still harping on about what happened back then?” said Palma nonchalantly, as if he was talking about an old playground dispute.
“I spent eighteen months in jail because of you. I was stripped of my badge. My wife and children were humiliated. I lost my friends, brought shame on my family,” said Naissone, barely able to contain his emotion. “Meanwhile you continued to get rich, scamming your way to further positions of power and influence.”
“Now, now. It seemed it all worked out okay for you in the end,” said Palma, as if talking to a child.
Naissone leaned round and punched his nemesis in the face. The car veered and almost crashed into a road sign in a section closed for road works. Palma wiped his nose on the shoulder of his shirt and kept quiet. They passed the elephant billboard at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. “I love animals,” Palma whispered.
“Shut up!” roared Naissone.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next day Felisberto arrived at the comando half an hour late. Crowds of people had come to ask about the shootings from two nights before. Albertina was busy handing out leaflets she had prepared with a sanitised version of events. “Anyone feeling unsafe or traumatised by the ‘disturbances’ should visit the comando’s post-traumatic stress session on Saturday evening or Sunday morning,” repeated Albertina, handing out flyers to the growing crowd. Felisberto squeezed his way through and made his way into the temporary office at the comando, where Naissone, Samora and Raquel were drinking coffee.
“What exactly do you normally do here in Mossuril? Hand out sweets? We don’t get crowds this big for riots in Monapo,” said Raquel.
“Where did you sleep?” Felisberto asked while pouring himself some coffee.
Raquel and Naissone looked at each other as if deciding whether to share their secret slumber. “Here,” said Naissone. “I’ve had worse nights, although I would advise you to invest in this new fad known as furniture.”
“How’s Palma?” Felisberto asked.
“Still in his cell. Asleep, I think.”
Albertina knocked on the door and entered the office.
“Looks like they want your blood out there,” said Samora.
“The boy who was with the white man wants to talk with you. He’s here,” announced Albertina, before Assuadi walked in with his school satchel on his back.
“Don’t be shy, tell the men what you told me,” said Albertina, pushing him forward. Assuadi looked at everybody in the room individually before dropping his eyes to the ground.
“How can we help you, young man?” asked Felisberto in a gentle voice. Assuadi leaned his bag on the table and pulled out Abdalla’s diary. He gave it to Felisberto who took it and opened it without saying anything. The Comandante flicked through the first pages and took a seat.
“What is it?” said Naissone. “I love homework hour as much as the next father. Is it simultaneous equations? I love simultaneous equations. Do you love simultaneous equations?” asked Naissone turning enthusiastically to Raquel and then the boy. Felisberto read on and didn’t say anything until midway through the diary he lifted his head and looked at the boy who was drinking a Fanta Albertina had brought for him.
“Where did you find this?” asked Felisberto.
“Christopher told me to keep it and give it to you after three days,” said the boy. So Tomlinson was right with what he had said about the Nampula Wildlife Reserve.
“What is it, Matola?” asked Naiss, growing increasingly impatient.
“A diary,” replied Felisberto. “A white boy walked in here a few days ago claiming something dodgy was going on at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. This is the diary of another park ranger and it corroborates the white boy’s story.”
“You telling me giraffes were making out with elephants? We’ve seen worse Matola. Let it go, we have serious work to do,” said Naissone, stretching his legs.
Felisberto turned to the boy. “Did your father write this?” asked the Comandante. The name of the diary’s author was also written on the boy’s school bag. Assuadi nodded. “Albertina, take the boy back to his foster family,” said the Comandante. Assuadi and Albertina left.
“Let’s go talk to Palma,” said the Comandante and Samora, Naissone and Raquel followed him into the dark cell where Palma was lying down reading.
“Nice of you all to come and see me like this at the same time. Is it visiting hours or just Ugliest Guy in the Force Day?” said Palma, lifting himself up on the bed in the better of the two cells at Mossuril’s police station. Naissone rolled up his sleeve and punched Palma in the ribs, the latter curling up on his bed.
“Now listen carefully to Felis,” said Naissone, taking a step back.
“We know you’re involved in something at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. Smuggling ivory? Selling furs? I wouldn’t put anything past you but I need to know what it is,” began Felisberto calmly. “If you could tell me what happened to Stokes too, in your own time, it’d be nice to close that file.”
Palma lifted himself up on the bed holding his ribs. His hair was a mess and he had two-day stubble on his normally clean-shaven face. His clothes were crumpled and dirty and he had cuts above his eye where Naissone had begun to take his revenge. The Comandante thought he was practically unrecognisable from the man who had blackmailed them in Maputo all those years before. Where there is no justice, age intervenes, thought the Comandante.
“What happened to Stokes?” asked Felisberto.
“Stokes had a big mouth,” replied Palma.
“He was a journalist,” said Raquel. “They talk. What did he have to say that you had him killed?”
Palma looked at Felisberto. “Who is this bitch?” asked Palma.
Raquel moved in as if to make herself known but Felisberto put out his arm and held her back.
“Who killed Stokes?” asked the Comandante again when calm had been restored.
“Maybe you should have asked your girl Bia,” said Palma. Naissone, Samora and Raquel looked at the Comandante, who barely flinched. Naissone punched Palma again in the ribs. The interrogation continued for an hour or so along the same lines but Palma said nothing. Naissone and Raquel left as the sun was setting to return to their posts.
“If something happens and you don’t call me, I’ll kill you,” said Naissone getting into his car. Raquel shot Felisberto with two fingers, winked at him and followed Naissone in her own car. The crowd had dispersed and all that remained was the usual buzz of the evening market marinated in the gentle voice of the muezzin performing the dusk call to prayer, the adhan. Paul and Amisse went to the church and the mosque respectively to pray, leaving Felisberto and Samora alone at the comando. Paul was still particularly shaken by recent events and had seemed uncomfortable at the comando all morning to Amisse. He had refused to eat his breakfast and had left his book lying out in the morning rain
– a sure sign of peculiarity.
Felisberto and Samora tried to map the details of the case so far. Both men were certain Palma was somehow responsible for Stokes’ death. Stokes had been killed because he knew something about Palma. Frangopelo was likely involved in some way or at least keen to cover something up. Where did Colonel Li fit in though? And what was the significance of the nature reserve? Was Colonel Li related to The Fixer? Were they the same person or somehow working together? And how was Frangopelo linked to Palma? Samora called his old colleague from university, Lourenço.
Lourenço was a brilliant technician who had spent his student days ripping apart and rebuilding any electrical device he could get his hands on while smoking copious amounts of Malawi Gold. While the other students were out drinking gin and dancing on weekends, ‘Maconero Lourenço’ would be drawing sketches of dismantled toasters and radios in a cloud of smoke. Everybody agreed he was a genius. It was widely known in northern Mozambique that if you had a technical problem that nobody could fix, Maconero Lourenço was the man to solve it. Samora spoke briefly and hung up.
“Lourenço has managed to recover the first fifteen seconds of the recording,” said Samora. “It’s Palma’s voice. Waves can be heard in the background. A second voice starts just where the disc is most damaged. He says he’ll need another week at least to recover the rest.” Felisberto nodded. “It’s a female voice,” added Samora. The Comandante didn’t react. “Lourenço is texting me what he has now,” said Samora. His phone rang again and he read the text:
PALMA: It’s all sorted. All the contracts are done but Frangopelo better stop sniffing around the park.
End.
“Well, we have something we can tell Frangopelo,” said the Comandante. Outside it had grown dark. The streets were empty, but for circles of light from the flickering streetlights and a pair of old drunks humming under a tree.
“Palma can tell us what’s on the minidisc,” said Felisberto standing up and walking into the comando’s cell to check on his prisoner. Palma was scratching his nails on the walls of the cell.
“Hello boys,” said Palma.
“The recording,” said Felisberto, “we’ve listened to it.”
“Which recording is that, your wife’s best hits in hell?” The Comandante struggled to keep his cool but restrained himself.
“How about we talk about the nature reserve, uh? We know about the deal,” said the Comandante, trying to hide any trace of uncertainty in his voice.
Palma laughed. “The deal? Which deal is that?” He continued to play with the officers until Samora heard the door open. He went to check and returned with eight men wearing balaclavas pointing semi-automatics at his face.
“That’ll be my taxi,” said Palma. The men in balaclavas tied Felisberto and Samora together, gagged them and placed them in the corner.
“You should always check to see if a man wears a GPS chip,” said Palma, pulling one from his ass cheeks.
Two of the men in balaclavas climbed onto furniture and removed recording devices from high up in the walls throughout the comando. They collected six and unlocked the cage where Palma was imprisoned.
“You see, I thought I’d have some digital witnesses – isn’t that what they call them, these days? – installed to capture some of your quite scintillating yet less than rulebook interrogation methods,” said Palma. “After all the bits and pieces of information we have been hoarding about each other, one can never have enough insurances in these turbulent times. Any judge is going to enjoy seeing how these wounds were inflicted,” added Palma, pointing to a cut on his neck. He accepted a bowl of warm water. His assistant held a soap bar, a towel, a clean shirt, a new shirt and a freshly-polished pair of shoes replete with gold-rimmed socks. The man looked like a walking wardrobe. Palma washed himself and changed.
“How long have these cameras been here?” asked Felisberto, resignedly.
“Since yesterday,” said Palma. “Your Malawian, Officer… officer…”
“Paul,” interjected Samora.
“Yes, Officer Paul, Watson, Well done.”
“How did you know we wouldn’t be here?” asked Felisberto.
“Ask one of your officers,” replied Palma.
“Should we finish them off?” asked one of the men dressed in a balaclava. Palma looked Samora and Felisberto in the eye.
“Too messy. Take them away. We definitely don’t want to be seeing these bush babies again,” said Palma. He leaned down beside Felisberto. “I hope you understand this is the last time we will see each other. For old time’s sake, kill Comandante Felisberto quickly when the time comes.” One of the gunmen barked an order about following on in the second car after dumping the bodies in the bush.
Palma clicked his fingers and left like the breeze. Five of the gunmen escorted him while three remained to drag Samora and the Comandante outside. So intent were they on this labour that neither of them saw Albertina come up from behind them, armed with the long iron bar they used as a makeshift bell at the comando. With a swoop far more powerful than one would have guessed from her appearance, Albertina knocked all three of the men out with the heavy bar. She karate kicked the last one for good measure. While a screech of tires announced the departure of Palma and his armed escort, Albertina untied the Comandante and Samora. They pulled their gags off and staggered out of the urine-scented cell, taking care to lock in the thugs after they left.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They found Officer Paul packing his things at his house. His wife was crying. They drove him to the comando and tied him to a chair. Samora was tempted to give his former colleague some rougher treatment but Felisberto still wanted to get to the bottom of the matter.
“I’m sorry,” said Paul, his eyes held low, his lips tight.
“Why did you do it, Paul?” said the Comandante softly.
“They arrived just after you left yesterday,” began Paul. “Six of them. Two of them came from behind the commando, two from either side. It was about 8pm. By the time I found my weapon I had six guns pointed in my face.”
“Liar!” screamed Samora. Felisberto signalled to his deputy to take it easy.
“It’s the truth,” said Paul. “They tied me up to this same chair and locked the doors. They started drilling holes in the wall and putting in small cameras. When they’d finished they let me go but they said they’d kill my wife and family if I told anyone they’d been here.” Paul began to cry. “I wanted to tell you, Comandante…”
Felisberto felt bad. He had dragged his men this low. He believed Paul’s version of events, although he couldn’t be sure that Paul was not still working for Palma. What if Paul had been the leak all along? The Comandante had always trusted the young officer but he realised he knew very little about him. Were the stories that everyone said about him true?
“When did you meet, Palma?” Felisberto persevered.
“I never met this Palma person,” said Paul. “I don’t know what their names were. They had balaclavas.” He began to weep uncontrollably.
“How did they know you were going to be alone then?” pushed Samora. “You’re the leak, aren’t you Paul? It’s okay, you can tell us. It’s over now.”
“I wouldn’t betray you,” said Paul having recovered his pose. “I wouldn’t.” Samora punched him in the ribs.
“Put him in the guards’ rooms for now and lock him in safe,” said Felisberto. Samora dragged Paul away. He returned minutes later, sweating and with blood on his knuckles. Felisberto shook his head. Why was everybody losing their cool when they needed to be focused on understanding the events? What had the white boy stumbled on? Why did The Fixer care? And what was Palma up to? On the plane he had talked of ‘power’. What was Palma hiding though? None of it made any sense.
Another question was itching inside Felisberto’s brain. How did Palma know they were coming for him? The security at his house had been minimal, almost deliberately withdrawn, thought the Comandante with hindsight. How could
his henchmen have known what time the comando would only be guarded by one officer? Samora was maybe right. Paul could have been working with either Palma or The Fixer, or at least one of them must have gotten to the young officer before yesterday. What did they actually know about Paul anyway? He had arrived shortly before Stokes’ death, the Comandante suddenly realised. This coincidence had never occurred to him before. Felisberto decided to question Paul again later and keep his cards close to his chest. If Paul was one of Palma’s men, he had to know what he had leaked about the comando.
Felisberto’s phone rang. Wouldn’t anyone leave him alone? It was Comandante Antonio from Nacala.
“I spoke to the port director,” said Antonio, after quipping about Naiss and Felisberto’s late night escapades with Raquel. “Colonel Li has been importing much more this year than usual.”
“Importing what?” asked Felisberto, having forgotten about the Chinese Colonel amidst the hailstorm of bullets already raining down on his head.
“Heavy machinery, the type used for oil extraction,” added Antonio. Felisberto thanked him and hung up. Who was Li working for? If he were under Palma’s thumb he would no doubt have led the charge on the comando. Felisberto found the mysterious Chinese man conspicuous by his absence in recent events.
“We need to find the white boy,” said the Comandante, turning to Samora.
“What about Paul? Are we just going to let him betray us and get away with it?” Samora was baying for revenge.
“These are hard times and we need to prioritise,” said Felisberto. “We’ll deal with Paul later. For now let’s find the white boy.”
“Easier said than done. Palma’s or The Fixer’s men have him. Even if we knew where he was, how would we get to him?” Samora pointed out, shrugging his shoulders for emphasis. He took a mouthful of rice with his right hand and flicked through his phone again. Felisberto began to click his fingers.
“That’s it,” said the Comandante. “How could I have missed it?!”