The Red Die

by Alex MacBeth

  When he arrived, Samora and Felisberto were parked outside in the Jeep. The station was deserted. The whole town seemed asleep. Tomlinson greeted Samora and Felisberto and for the first time he was happy to see both. But the joy was shattered as gunshots hit the Jeep. Felisberto ordered everybody to shelter behind the car and took out his gun. A shower of gunfire rained down on the police vehicle again. Felisberto couldn’t help but curse the inevitable damage to the car. They had just taken it to the mechanic the week before.

  The Comandante rolled over and took aim – he could see a figure running between the trees. He fired three shots and heard a scream. Propelled by the pain of his car, he took cover behind a tree and fired at the moving subject again. This time there was silence. Felisberto moved in and looked at the man on the ground. He wasn’t breathing.

  He ran back to the car and they drove off before the local police arrived at the scene. Neither Samora nor Tomlinson said anything. When they arrived in Mossuril, stray cats and dogs were roaming the empty streets. Felisberto drove beyond Mossuril and took a side path past a few mud houses. They pulled up beside a large abandoned bamboo construction at the end of the road, not far from the sea. The barn was nicely camouflaged by fronds and coconut trees.

  “What’s this?” asked Samora.

  “New HQ,” replied Felisberto. “We are going to shut the main comando for a week and operate from here. It’s basic, but secluded,” said the Comandante, tapping a bamboo pole. “Tomlinson, you’ll sleep here, that way you’ll always be guarded.” He grabbed a sleeping bag, a mosquito net and a portable mattress from the Jeep together with a can of water, a bar of soap and a towel. “Tomorrow we’ll get you your things,” added Felisberto.

  “Does that mean I’m under house arrest? I kind of wanted to leave,” protested Tomlinson.

  “I just killed a man for you,” replied Felisberto sharply. “Now you’re going to help me get to the bottom of what is going on at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve.” The Comandante pushed the sleeping bag and the mosquito net towards Tomlinson who reluctantly took them. Before he had time to put up the net he was asleep on the blow-up mattress.

  Felisberto lit a cigarette and sat on one of the two chairs in the bamboo warehouse. “We’ll need the generator and a few candles. Oh, and more chairs,” said Felisberto, waving his finger at Samora. For the first time Samora looked despondent.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Felisberto.

  Samora looked at the Comandante while playing with the red die they’d found in Stokes’ pocket. Could the numbers mean something? They added up to 21. What was the game that Stokes said he would win in the end? And most of all, how could all this misery be called a game?”

  “Samora,” said Felisberto affirmatively, “what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” replied the young namesake of Mozambique’s first president. “This gunfire is just getting a little close to my head.” The Comandante knew Samora had been pushed to the limit. They had practically been under siege for three weeks. They were not the riot squad but a district police force trained to investigate petty thefts and minor offences.

  “When do we call for backup?” Samora asked wearily. Felisberto knew he should have told General Carlos, the provincial director of police in Nampula, about the case when he’d found Stokes’ body. Instead he had broken the internal code of conduct on so many occasions he could hardly remember the last time he had behaved in a way befitting police protocol. General Carlos was a tolerant police chief. But even the former combatant of Felisberto’s generation would struggle to see the light side of killing people and burying them under a tree. They had gone too deep now and the only way forward was to keep digging, alone. The Comandante didn’t even know how much he could rely on Naiss. Let alone Raquel or General Carlos.

  “Is this about revenge on Palma?” asked Samora. Felisberto thought about the question. Was it? It was about survival as much as revenge.

  “What choice do we have?” bemoaned Felisberto. “Palma will kill us sooner or later if we don’t kill him or somehow prove he is doing something illegal.”

  “What is he doing at the reserve?”

  “The person who really knows is João the Fixer,” mused the Comandante.

  “Albertina?” asked Samora. The Comandante nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Samora collected Albertina and Amisse, and brought them to the bamboo comando. Tomlinson was still asleep. Daniel and Cristina had arrived by motorbike with a gift. A brand new TV, paid for by Naiss and Raquel. “Nooooobody has to miss Balacobaco because of police work,” said Daniel, circling the barn with an extension cable and looking for a socket.

  “Thank you,” replied Felisberto, irritated by the distraction his two cadets offered. His eyes made this unequivocally clear to Samora.

  Daniel and Cristina withdrew and left. Albertina looked distinctly uncomfortable with the ever more haphazardly arranged nature of her workspace, but she managed to keep a lid on her emotions. Tomlinson stood up to free a seat for her.

  “Gentleman, Albertina, I’m sorry to have to address you in these circumstances,” began the Comandante standing easy. “The truth is the series of attacks on the comando have forced us to go undercover until we understand why we are under attack. Palma will not let this end here and nor can we. Thanks to the courage and heroism of Agent Albertina, Lieutenant Samora and I are here to tell the tale.” Felisberto paused and bowed his thanks to Albertina who looked embarrassed, thrilled and proud at the same time.

  “This will be the temporary comando“. Felisberto continued. “Nobody is to know about it. You don’t talk about it with your partners, your families, your friends or even your spirits. Our safety depends on it. When you walk here, walk along the beach, not along the road. If anybody asks, we are officially all on leave.”

  Nobody breathed a word. “As you all know, Palma escaped. Last night Minister Frangopelo called me and asked me to go to Maputo next week to present our conclusions from the Stokes case,” continued Felisberto. Gasps of awe erupted. Amisse was practically hysterical with joy. “The minister, man, the minister!” he kept repeating. Felisberto ushered everybody to be calm.

  “He wants to know about the Nampula Wildlife Reserve and I want to give him answers,” said Felisberto.

  “How do we know we can trust him?” asked Samora.

  “We don’t,” replied Felisberto. “But what choice do we have?” Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Albertina,” continued Felisberto. “I want you to move on The Fixer at the wedding tomorrow. Samora will come with you. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, Comandante,” replied Albertina excitedly. “What exactly will be the objective of my mission?”

  “Make contact with The Fixer and make him like you. Then arrange to meet him somewhere quiet at a later date, if possible in the reserve. Say you love animals when you find out he is a park director,” continued Felisberto.

  “What if he doesn’t say he is a park director?”

  “Then still tell him you love animals. We need to get The Fixer to the park without all his security.”

  “Tell him you always dreamed of making love surrounded by elephants,” said Amisse, humping the air. Albertina shot her peer a vicious look that reassured everybody that she was up for the job. Amisse humped the air again and stuck out his tongue. Felisberto lit a GT cigarette and approached his cadet.

  “Say something like that again and you’ll never step foot in this comando again,” the Comandante calmly informed Amisse, his hands bearing down on the cadet’s shoulders. Everybody knew the Comandante meant it. The meeting dissolved and everybody took the day off.

  Samora went to visit Mora in Nampula, having persuaded her to sneak out of the bank and into his aching arms for an hour. He took the shot-up police car, much to Felisberto’s annoyance. It was a clear day, not too hot, and the Comandante decided he would take his kids for a walk up the beach. There was a gentle breeze as they reached the sparkling blue
coastline, which masked the heavy humidity. Rambo chased the seagulls as they landed near where the waves were breaking. Felisberto brought some peanuts.

  They said little as they walked, choosing instead to watch the flight of birds, the ripple of waves or the adventures of crabs. Sofia felt the massage of the sand on her bare feet while Germano searched for hidden treasures among shells. Rambo engaged in curious fencing duals with crabs, dancing around their holes and occasionally jabbing, but never killing them. The Comandante was content breathing in the clean air and letting it ventilate his thoughts.

  When they stopped to swim in a small cove, the water in the bay was more like a warm bath than an ocean. Tiny fish of all species swam in and out of the small green mangrove leaves to hide from predators. The mangrove trees, short and skinny with big green hair, poked their heads out of the water to reach the sun, shepherding the fish.

  Germano turned to his father as they sat on the beach drying off.

  “Are you going to die soon?” asked the boy. A tear appeared in Sofia’s eye. Felisberto hugged his children.

  “No,” he said softly. “I’m not going to die. Everything is going to be okay. We’re together now.”

  “But you will go away again soon, won’t you?” asked Sofia.

  “No. I’ll always be here for you,” he replied. Felisberto held his children until the tide began to reach their knees and the sun was above the horizon. They walked back up the beach to their home. Paola cooked dinner and for the first time in a long time, they ate together, watching Mozambican pop videos on TVM, Mozambique’s main state television channel. Felisberto fell asleep on the sofa with a feeling of long-lost domestic harmony.

  The next day, the Comandante met up with his team at the bamboo comando as scheduled at 7am. Albertina was wearing a revealing top that made her look more like a TV celebrity than a police administrator. Her hair was neatly arranged in dozens of tiny beaded braids and she wore make up to highlight her deep-set eyes and prominent lips. Raquel had called her the night before to give her guidelines.

  “If all goes pear-shaped, just remember this: women built this country and hold it together every single day of each year. Women, not men,” Raquel had said.

  “Well, sort of,” Albertina had replied, with a hint of laughter.

  “Trust me, they did and they do,” Raquel had continued forcefully. “Don’t let yourself be pushed around by the men at the comando, you hear me?”

  Albertina breathed a tame reply.

  “Say yes, girl,” pushed Raquel.

  “I won’t let them push me around, Ma Raquel,” promised Albertina.

  Samora was wearing a suit, sunglasses and a huge hat replete with a leopard skin crest, all things his boss had never seen him adorn before. Regardless of the danger involved, Felisberto was quite sure Samora would enjoy the process.

  “Is everybody here?” Felisberto began. Samora nodded while chewing a toothpick and typing something into his phone. He thinks he’s a gangster, Felisberto mused to himself. All the better, he concluded. “Samora and Albertina will go to the wedding reception. The invite is sorted, right?” said Felisberto, looking pointedly at Samora. Samora nodded.

  “Amisse and I will be parked outside. Albertina will wear a wire so we should be able to hear everything inside. If anything goes wrong, we abort. I repeat, we abort. Never do we further risk Albertina’s safety. When inside, keep a safe distance, Samora. Make an entry and let Albertina do the rest.” Samora didn’t look up but merely flicked two fingers over his shoulder to acknowledge he had heard. How some enjoy the stage, Felisberto couldn’t help but giggle to himself. The Comandante turned to Albertina. “Are you ready for this?” he asked her. She nodded. “Good. We should get going,” ordered the Comandante.

  “What about me?” asked Tomlinson, in his boxing shorts and sipping coffee.

  “In Mozambique we consider it decent to get dressed for a work meeting,” commented Amisse. Tomlinson dressed in a flash and returned. “So, can I come?”

  “There’s no space in the car,” replied the Comandante.

  “I’m small,” said Tomlinson, crouching down comically. He looked like a frog.

  “This is police work, not a movie set,” added Felisberto.

  “I thought you said you wanted me to help you sort out what is going on at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. I can interpret João’s codes and references. I know that park as well as anyone else,” Tomlinson pleaded, puffing out his credentials to be part of their mission.

  “It’s too dangerous,” said the Comandante. Samora took Felisberto aside. “He’s the only one who has met The Fixer recently. He could be useful and we may need to use him,” added Samora. The Comandante hated the way his deputy always argued with him, even if most of the time he was right.

  They set off in the battered Jeep and were outside the reception three hours later. Tomlinson sat squeezed in between Amisse and Albertina in the back. They placed the wire in the inside of Albertina’s jacket and tested it. It worked. “Good luck,” said Felisberto.

  The street had been cordoned off for wedding guests and at least a hundred luxury cars – Audis, BMWs and Mercedes – were parked outside the opulent venue. Samora and Albertina walked up the red carpet guarded by three bouncers in shades. One of the men checked the list, ticked of Samora’s name and waved him and Albertina in.

  Inside there were hundreds of guests. All were dressed in designer clothes and wearing luxury jewellery and accessories. Young girls in short skirts and ornate hair arrangements hung onto the arms of their elder patrons in suits. Expensive watches hung off the wrists of businessmen clad in suits cut in Paris, Zürich and Rome. Foods of all sorts had been laid out on one side of the hall. A band played Mozambican contemporary pop and a gold-rimmed wine fountain was the centrepiece of a lavish bar.

  “I think we should eat before we get started,” strategised Samora, his hands reaching for a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray. He went to fill a plate with such delicacies as roast meat, salmon, rare cheeses and mini pizzas when an old friend from school tapped him on the back. “Samora, fancy seeing you here.” Samora knew the face but the name evaded him. Was it Leticia? Ana? “So I hear you’ve been seeing Mora,” continued the nameless face.

  How did she know? “News travels quickly, you know,” added the girl, now giggling and tapping her nose. “What are you up to these days anyway?” she added.

  “Business…” replied Samora. “Business. Work mainly on the coast; Nacala, Mossuril, you know. I make a living. What about you?”

  “Well, I’ve been…”

  Samora wasn’t listening. He looked around to find Albertina. He had lost her. Then he found her, talking to The Fixer. How had she done it? He had barely turned his back for two minutes. Samora moved to get a better view of Albertina, under the cover of pretending to listen to the girl whose name he still couldn’t remember. The officer’s old friend was talking about how dangerous Nampula had become. “They’ll stab you for nothing, they will. For nothing,” she emphasised. “It’s these Sudanese and Rwandans. They’re not like us,” she added. Clara, that’s her name! Samora suddenly realised in a flash. He remembered that his old school friend had always been a racist. When she was a teenager she had dated a Congolese boy from the refugee camp outside Nampula. It had ended badly and Clara had since painted all black foreigners with the same brush to heal her pain.

  Samora excused himself to pay his greetings to the bride and groom. Instead he sneaked up behind The Fixer and Albertina to eavesdrop on their conversation. Things seemed to be going well. They were already discussing animals. Samora spotted Daniel, Naiss’ son, in a small group in the distance. What’s he doing here? Thought the lieutenant. Samora hid behind a column hoping his colleague wouldn’t break his cover. He looked again but Daniel hadn’t seen him.

  “Samora.” Another old friend had recognised him. Samora took a seat at a long table with Saide and before he knew it he was a little tipsy. The guests of hono
ur and the family of the bride and groom made speeches, with laughter and fake smiles filling the open-air hall. The Fixer was at the table across from Samora. He was leaning into Albertina’s ear whispering, his hand floating across the top of her back. Samora pondered on an exit plan, when he was forced to follow rather than lead events.

  The Fixer stood up and got his coat. Where was he going? Albertina was holding his arm and she and The Fixer were heading towards the door together. This wasn’t planned, thought Samora. The Fixer’s bodyguards followed their boss, but he took his car keys and signalled for them to stay. His men pleaded with him not to drive. The Fixer growled at them and continued towards the door, cursing his bodyguards as he left. Samora followed, pretending to be on his phone.

  “I think I’m too tired for a club,” Samora yelled into his handset. Albertina and The Fixer got in a car. Why didn’t she abort? What was she doing? Samora walked over to the Jeep parked in the corner of the carpark and got in.

  “What’s going on?” asked Felisberto.

  “I don’t know, they’re leaving.”

  “Albertina said she always wanted to make love surrounded by elephants,” said Amisse. Tomlinson was in hysterics. Samora ignored the comment and asked again. “Seriously, what happened?”

  “It sounds strange to say,” began the Comandante, “but Albertina actually said she’d always wanted to make love surrounded by elephants.” The men laughed at the idea of João ‘Bizu’ The Fixer, one of Mozambique’s most feared men, under the spell of Albertina, the tame and quiet administrative manager they had all nicknamed Sister Prudence for years.