by Alex MacBeth
“What are you talking about, Comandante?”
“You can find the white boy with your phone,” said Felisberto, hardly able to believe what he was saying.
“With my phone?” repeated Samora.
“With the book, the Facebook,” said Felisberto. Samora nodded and grabbed a file from the desk. He copied Tomlinson’s email address into the Facebook search box and found him instantly.
“I’ve found him,” said Samora proudly.
“Really? Already? Good, then… then let him know those are Palma’s people and that he could be in serious danger.”
Samora began to write. Tomlinson was online and replied instantly.
Why should I trust you? wrote Tomlinson. Samora began to explain the situation with Felisberto reading over his back.
“Tell him to come here. We can keep him safe,” nudged Felisberto, knowing it wasn’t necessarily true. Samora continued to type.
Where are you? he wrote.
Not sure, one hour outside Nampula, in town with railway and market stalls either side of the road, replied Tomlinson. It pretty much fitted the description of any town between Monapo and Nampula, a hundred kilometres stretch with six towns, but Samora gambled on it being Namialo, the crossroads town on the main road in north-eastern Mozambique.
Can you get out? asked Samora. Tomlinson said he thought he could. Samora asked him what he could see from the window of his room and Tomlinson answered the railway track. If Tomlinson was somewhere near Namialo, the tracks would lead the British zoologist to the town’s station. All he would have to do is follow the lights: the opposite direction was wilderness for miles. Samora arranged to meet Tomlinson at the station at midnight on the following night. If by 2am one of them had not shown up, it meant something had gone wrong and they would abort the plan. They promised to message each other if anything changed. Samora would send a message at 11pm to say he was leaving Mossuril. Tomlinson agreed to meet at midnight and logged off.
“Crazy,” commented Felisberto, shaking his head.
“Didn’t you want me to get the white boy?” asked Samora.
“But that you can get him on your phone with the book? Crazy,” repeated the Comandante. “One day the world will be one big police state because of the book of faces.”
“What are we going to do about Palma?” asked Samora wearily, ignoring his boss’ latest outburst of technophobia.
“Forget Palma,” said the Comandante, watching schoolchildren drift through the street in their white and blue uniforms and playful smiles. His daughter Sofia was playing with a boy who had a toy car on a string. The car’s body was a plastic margarine container while the wheels were bottle tops. A straw and some wire fitted out the details. The car was a feat of engineering for an eight-year-old but Felisberto wasn’t impressed by how the boy had used it to sway his daughter. He turned to Samora.
“If Palma didn’t kill Stokes, we at least know he organised his death,” said Felisberto.
“Maybe,” said Samora, “but we can’t be sure. Palma said something about Bia.”
“Bia wouldn’t have killed Stokes, she loved him.”
“Then why did Palma say it? Besides, love can lead people to do strange things,” Samora replied, shrugging his shoulders. He wondered what strange things he would do for Mora.
“With Palma, we have a motive. Whatever he’s up to, Stokes knew it and it got him killed,” said Felisberto.
“One thing I don’t understand,” carried on Samora. “If Stokes had a precious recording of Palma, Frangopelo or whoever, something important, then why did he only keep it on a minidisc?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Well, if I was Stokes and I was researching for a story, I’d keep my recording on my computer, a USB or an external flash drive.”
“In a language known to man, please.”
“Even these minidiscs are for old people like you. There must be other digital formats of the recording somewhere.”
Old people like you? Felisberto wanted to slap Samora. The Comandante suddenly felt very stupid not even having known what ‘old people’ should know.
“Even if Stokes had a copy on his computer, Palma’s men would have taken it when they killed Bia. Stokes’ flat was ransacked,” said Felisberto.
“Hmm,” sighed Samora. “Maybe Stokes hid a copy somewhere. He must have known his house wasn’t a safe place to keep confidential information.”
“Even if he did, he could have hidden it anywhere.” The Comandante paused. “We’ve come as close as we can this way, Samora. We need to regroup.”
“Did Bia have family?”
“She had a boy.”
It had never dawned on Felisberto to visit the boy. Was Palma the father? Bia had mentioned that Stokes had been close to him. The boy might remember something useful. Felisberto resolved to drive to Nampula early the next morning to go and see him. He had also promised he would have dinner with Naiss.
The next day the Comandante and Samora were headed into Nampula. Samora was driving, while Felisberto was on the phone to Naissone.
“I know we shouldn’t have let him go, but we were outgunned.” A brief pause followed. “I am telling you,” protested Felisberto. “We’ll deal with Palma later. Right now I need you to use your contacts to help me find an address. Bia Manhica.” The Comandante remembered seeing her name on a utility bill on Stokes’ table. Felisberto hung up and they drove on in the blistering heat, pausing only to let the battered old tyres of the comando’s 4×4 Jeep rest. Cars regularly got flat tyres from the overheated tarmac and the comando’s budget was stretched to the limit as it was.
Naissone called back before they reached Nampula with an address for the boy. “He was taken in by the Sisters of Mercy after his mother died,” said Naissone. “Do you think he knows something?” The Comandante wrote down the address. “I’ll let you know,” he said and hung up. Samora interrupted yet another long SMS to Mora to type the Sisters of Mercy’s address into his GPS on his iPhone as they entered Nampula. They drove down narrow paths with huge potholes, squeezing between homes, electric poles and sewers. Ten minutes later they reached a large iron gate. Samora rung the bell and a Roman Catholic sister opened the hatch on the gate.
“We’re looking for the Manhica boy,” said Felisberto.
The nun eyed the Comandante and Samora suspiciously. “What do you want from the boy?” she interrogated, keeping a stern eye on both officers.
“We’re police officers,” replied Felisberto showing his badge. “We’d like to ask him a few questions about a man who was with his mother before… her death,” concluded the Comandante.
“Where are you from?” pursued the nurse, growing more, not less, suspicious with the Comandante’s reassurances.
The Comandante could tell Palma’s men must have visited and he gambled on honesty to get him in.
“We are not with the crooks,” tried Felisberto. “We care about the boy. We think he could be in danger and we just need to speak with him. It won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
The sister scoured the Comandante and Samora one last time before opening the gate. “Sister Maria,” said the servant of God in her forties, short, well-sized and suddenly brandishing a warm smile. They walked through the courtyard and passed the basketball court to the study rooms in a separate building further on. They entered a library full of books and manuscripts and Sister Maria pointed to a boy. “That’s him,” said the sister, warning them to go lightly on the boy and letting her angry-headmistress look resurface briefly to emphasise the point. Felisberto and Samora approached. The boy was doing homework at a desk in the corner alone, with a headphone in one ear.
“Hard stuff studying, huh?” Felisberto said as he pulled up a chair. “I was never much good at it.” He leaned over the boy’s book. “Err, maths; that especially I was terrible at. All those Xs and Ys mixed with numbers. For me Xs and Ys belonged in English but then they suddenly started appearing in maths too. Co
nfusing,” said the Comandante. The boy pulled out his earphone and smiled.
“I’m Felisberto.”
The boy didn’t answer. Agostino was written on his schoolbook.
“Agostino, I was a friend of your mother’s. I’m sorry for what happened to her. I’m a policeman and I’m going to find the people who did it,” said Felisberto. “But I need you to help me. Will you help me?”
The boy nodded gently.
“Your mother knew a man called John Stokes, an English man, an acuna. Do you remember him?”
“He was a nice man,” said Agostino quietly. “He used to give me nice things too. Like this Monopoly,” he added, reaching for a box of the famous board game. He gave it to Samora who held it while the boy continued. “He gave my mãe nice things too. One time he took us on holiday to Ibo Island.”
“Did he ever give you any papers or documents to keep?” asked Samora.
Agostino shook his head.
“Was there a place he used to stay in or work other than his apartment?” asked Felisberto.
The boy shook his head again. “He was always at the Atlantic Cafe and at his flat. I used to go and see him in the evenings,” said the boy.
“What would you do together?” Felisberto asked Agostino.
“We’d play Monopoly. Would you like to play?” asked Agostino enthusiastically. He grabbed the box from Samora and began to prepare for a game.
“Perhaps another time,” said Samora giving his business card to the boy. “If you remember anything else or think there is anything important that we should know, please call me.”
The boy took the card and put it in his pocket. “Not even one round?” he pleaded. Felisberto gave the boy some biscuits he had bought at a side store and rubbed his hair. Agostino put his headphones on again and returned to his homework. As they walked out the Comandante questioned Samora about his business card.
“When did you get it?” he asked.
“I had them made while you were away. I’ve got some for you too,” said Samora, producing a set of cards with the Comandante’s name in italic gold letters.
‘Comandante João Felisberto, comando PIC do Distrito de Mossuril.’
His phone number and even an email address were on the card. Felisberto had never used email in his life and he didn’t plan to now. The digital address looked hideous to him. “I don’t want them,” he said as they stepped into the car. They drove into Nampula and ate some old fried chicken at a store on a busy road. The information the boy had given them they already knew but at least they had closed another avenue. As they sucked their chicken bones, Samora pointed out a poster.
“That’s the mayor’s daughter who is getting married,” Samora commented pointing at the wedding announcement.
“And?” answered the Comandante. “You jealous’?”
“Knew her in school, never liked her. But anybody who is anyone will be there. And that means João The Fixer too,” added Samora.
Felisberto looked at the poster. “So what do you suggest we do?”
“Well, if Albertina was going to make an entry undercover, it could be a good time,” pointed out Samora. Felisberto read the notice more carefully. The mayor’s daughter, Simona, was holding a reception at a private wedding hall. By invite only.
“Did you miss the ‘by invite only’ bit?”
“My ex is a good friend of hers. I can get us in,” replied Samora with a cheeky smile. They drove back to Mossuril, entering the town on the mud road just before the sun was setting. They turned on Radio Mossuril for the last few miles and heard the news round-up read by chief anchor Rosario. The south coast had been hit by floods. Corn exports had increased since the year before. Minister Frangopelo had ordered a review of all oil contracts issued by his ministry in the last twenty years.
Felisberto’s phone rang. From the provincial code of the number he could see it was from Maputo. He hesitated then picked up.
“Hello?”
“Is this Commander João Felisberto?” said a female voice.
“This is Commander Felisberto. Who is asking?” replied the Comandante.
“This is Rosa Flores from the office of Minister Frangopelo in Maputo,” continued the girl. “The Minister would like to speak to you personally.”
“Is this a joke?” asked Felisberto defensively. “Is this you Naissone? Germano?”
“Sir, the minister is waiting beside me to talk to you. I’m going to pass you over to his Excellency Minister Frangopelo now.” A brief pause ensued before an authoritative voice boomed down the line. Felisberto had heard it before many times on television and was almost certain it was the minister’s.
“Comandante Felisberto,” began Minister Frangopelo.
“Your Excellency,” replied Felisberto.
“Call me Minister, it’s fine,” said Frangopelo. “If I wanted protocol I’d have called a press conference. You may be wondering how I got your number and why I am calling you out of the blue at this hour. The fact of the matter is if I’ve been hearing things about strange happenings in Mossuril that could be related to an investigation my ministry is conducting. It may even involve people in my ministry.”
Did Frangopelo know about Stokes? “It is true, an officer was killed in Mossuril, Minister, we are still investigating,” said Felisberto. Frangopelo offered his condolences. “What about the murder of the foreigner?” asked the minister. “The body of a white tourist washed up in the bay,” replied Felisberto, playing down events.
“Stokes wasn’t a tourist, he was a journalist, as I’m sure you know Comandante. Let’s not waste each other’s time. I know you have been investigating Stokes’ death and I know your enquiries have crossed paths with Palma.”
Felisberto stayed quiet but was breathing heavily. How could Frangopelo know all this? And why was he calling him? Could he trust this minister? The Comandante’s past experiences had soured his view of politicians.
“What do you propose we do, Your Excellency?” Felisberto uttered cautiously.
“I would like you to come to Maputo next week to meet with me and brief me personally on your investigation. I am particularly interested in any details relating to Palma or the Nampula Wildlife Reserve,” said the minister. “This is my number. Please save it. My PA Rosa will be in touch with details about your travel arrangements. Must run now, ciao.” The Minister hung up.
“Who was it?” asked Samora.
“Minister Frangopelo,” Felisberto replied while opening the comando.
“And my mother is Beyoncé,” answered Samora. They ate dinner and sat in the office. Felisberto read a newspaper he had bought in Nampula and caught up with the weekend’s football scores. Beira had lost 4-0 to newly promoted Nacala in the Moçambola. The club was in ruin, said the paper ‘because members of the board of directors have become vultures more interested in quick returns than the health of the beautiful game.’ Samora was texting Mora on his phone. The Comandante watched his deputy send four texts alone during dinner. Felisberto wondered how many he would have sent Adija if there had been mobile phones in the epoch of their love affair.
Samora tapped the Comandante on the shoulder. “It’s 10.25pm,” he said. “Time to go.” Felisberto had fallen asleep. He grabbed some water and they headed to the car, leaving Amisse alone at the comando. Samora messaged Tomlinson to say they were leaving and received the following message: I’ll try to get out soon.
“What does he mean he’ll try?” said Felisberto. “I’ve got the minister breathing down my neck about the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. Whatever is going on there we have to find out and this kid is key to that. So let’s not screw this up. Message the kid and tell him to get out now.”
***
Tomlinson had studied the guards’ movements all day and all night. Once every four hours a new one came in. The switch over was due to happen at 11.15pm, when both guards would normally smoke a cigarette together on the steps behind the house, out of view, away from the normal posting fac
ing his window. He would have two, maybe three minutes maximum to climb down the wall and get far enough away for the guards not to be able to follow him. It would be the most dangerous thing he had ever done.
But he couldn’t stay where he was. He had begun to become suspicious of the girl and the so-called embassy staff when they had brought him to an ‘embassy residence’ while they made a few checks to corroborate his story. When he asked why they couldn’t go straight to the main embassy in Maputo to resolve the matter, he was told it was custom procedure to wait at a regional substation until certain basic checks had been completed. Tomlinson’s suspicions only grew when he noticed an English flag in the living room. Why would a British Embassy have an English flag and not a Union Jack on its walls? And why did so many of the so-called staff not speak, let alone understand English? Somehow his meeting with the Foreign Office must have been leaked or somebody must have hacked his email. That was a matter for another day. Right now he knew he had to get out.
It was 11.07pm. Tomlinson went downstairs to the front of the house where Clemence and two of the guards were talking.
“Do any of you have a cigarette?” asked Tomlinson, trying to sound friendly.
“Sure,” replied Clemence. “Do you want to have a drink with us?”
“I’m going to catch an early night actually. Thanks though,” said Tomlinson lighting the cigarette and wondering back up to his room on the third floor. Tomlinson didn’t smoke, he had merely wanted to check the view through the window on the ground floor one last time. If they didn’t move, he wouldn’t be seen. He stubbed out the cigarette in the bathroom and returned to his room.
The second guard came and together with his colleague who was finishing his shift went to smoke out of view. Tomlinson gathered his rope made of tied sheets, towels and blankets and began to lower it. He tied it to the staunch mahogany bed and quietly piled furniture on top of it. Would it hold? He looked down at the fifteen metre drop and the hairs on his arms stood upright. He sat on the windowsill and took the rope. The bed moved slightly but wedged against the cupboard. Tomlinson waited and hoped the guards wouldn’t find him hanging. Nobody came. Slowly he lowered himself down the rope and began to run along the railway tracks towards town. He ran for about twenty minutes flat out, pausing only when he could no longer see the lights of the house. The lights of the town were still at least a few kilometres-away. It was dark and there were strange noises either side of the track. Tomlinson dared not tread onto the road parallel and so he ran, along the tracks, just as Samora had instructed him to. After an hour or so, maybe more, he reached the edges of the town exhausted. He saw a larger light up ahead and guessed it was the station.