by Alex MacBeth
They followed The Fixer’s Mercedes, staying a few hundred metres behind. The Comandante rung Naissone and updated him. Samora received a call of his own from Lourenço. “Okay,” he said and hung up.
“Who was that?” asked the Comandante. “Lourenço says it’s impossible to recover the disc. The damage is irreversible,” Samora answered glumly.
“Could he make out any more voices?” Samora shook his head. The Comandante suddenly knew this was their last chance. They would never be able to take down The Fixer’s network by force. Let alone Palma.
They drove and listened to the conversation between Albertina and The Fixer on a small mp3 player. The Fixer was singing as he drove. Occasionally Albertina could be heard rejecting his advances. “Not here, under the stars. Here wouldn’t be right.” The Fixer grunted and groaned. “Anywhere would be right with you.” He dialled a number. “Bring your girl, I’ve got mine. We’ll have some fun,” The Fixer shouted into the handset. He listened and groaned a bit more. “The park, in half an hour. It’ll be an all-nighter alright!” The Fixer laughed and hung up. “You don’t mind if a couple of friends come, do you?” The Fixer asked rhetorically. Albertina could be heard shuffling a little in her chair. She took her time. “As long I am only with you,” she answered finally.
“Who’s coming?” asked Samora.
“Do you think I’m psychic?” replied the Comandante. “How do I know? Whoever it is we have to get Albertina out of there. This guy is sick.” They reached Namialo and turned off on the road to Pemba towards the Nampula Wildlife Reserve.
The car began to wobble. “We’ve got a flat,” said Samora, who was driving. “Shit!” Felisberto shouted instinctively, thumping his fist into the dashboard. They pulled up and jumped out. The front right tyre had burst. Amisse grabbed the jack and raised the car. “Hurry up!” roared Felisberto. Behind them and in front of them lay nothing but the vast darkness.
The conversation between Albertina and The Fixer had derailed. It consisted of Albertina reminding The Fixer to focus on the road and not her legs until they reached the park. Which they did, soon after. The Fixer turned left past the rhino and elephant heads with Christmas lights and through the park gates, which were unmanned. Amisse finally fixed the tyre and ten or so minutes later they too arrived at the park.
“That’s Section 1 over there,” said Tomlinson, narrating as they drove through the reserve. They followed the tracks of The Fixer and Albertina on the mud track in the dark. “Now we’re driving past Section 2,” said Tomlinson.
They drove for about fifteen minutes until they reached The Fixer’s car parked by a huge cement complex surrounded by tall barbed-wire fencing. “Section 3,” said Tomlinson. “Animal Psychology Centre.” A trailer carrying two large machines of a sort the Comandante had never seen before were parked in the compound. A mountain of long iron pipes were sprawled out beside the machines.
“They weren’t here before,” Tomlinson announced. “Why you’d need that sort of crane for animal psychology I’m not sure,” he muttered.
The Fixer opened the gate and Albertina followed him into the compound. The Comandante parked under a few trees off the road and he, Samora, Amisse and Tomlinson approached the gate, which was closed. The wiring was more than four-metres high, estimated Samora. “It’s electric,” Tomlinson pointed out.
“What is this?” asked Samora.
“Animal Psychology Centre,” repeated Tomlinson. “It is a highly secretive Mozambican government programme to alter the psychology of war-affected animals. And maybe something else,” said Tomlinson, still studying the changes since he’d left.
“A shrink for animals?” asked Amisse.
“How do we get in?” said Felisberto, waving at the immense complex of warehouses, lorries and domed constructions. “Apparently there is a tunnel round the back but I never checked,” replied Tomlinson. It took them twenty minutes to reach the other side through high grass. Samora repeatedly pledged to wipe out any species that attacked him.
“Now what?” asked Samora. Tomlinson crawled up to a point in the fence beside two mango trees. He had read about a dugout tunnel under the fence disguised by foliage in a smudged footnote in Abdulla’s diary. He shifted through the leaves and his hand met a hole. Felisberto, Samora and Amisse watched Tomlinson crawl under the electric fence. Amisse and Felisberto reluctantly followed the Englishman. “Get on with it!” whispered Felisberto angrily to Samora as the latter froze before the fence. Samora pointed at the invisible darkness and cursed in all directions like a Mozambican cobra shaking its head to spit poison. Finally he squeezed through the hole. Inside it was quiet. The warehouses had shielded a mountain more material from view.
“They’re mining something here,” said Amisse, recognising the giant iron fist from the coal mines he had seen on TV in Tete Province. Felisberto was sure he had seen something similar too, when he had visited his friend Julio. Their thoughts were interrupted by voices coming from about 200 metres away. As they slid up the side of a warehouse, following the sound of The Fixer and Albertina’s voices, they crept up on the two in the dark. The Fixer was forcing himself on Albertina: He had his trousers round his legs when they found him. Felisberto pointed his gun at ‘Bizu’ and put his finger to his mouth. Samora grabbed Albertina, who was struggling to hold back tears. Felisberto pushed everybody into an open room nearby.
“You won’t get out of here alive, whoever you are,” said The Fixer. The light reflected off his bald head and his trousers still hung slightly below his waistline. He lit a cigarette and the smoke seemed to filter out of him slowly like a gentle volcano eruption.
“It seems you don’t remember me,” said the Comandante. They had met once at a roadblock near Palma’s villa in Maputo in the mid-1990s. Felisberto had been handing out some cigarettes to night guards at Palma’s residence when he had been in charge of the minister’s security detail with Special Squad’s ‘Minister Boys’ division. The Fixer had arrived to see Palma unannounced and Felisberto had at first refused to let him pass, causing a brief altercation until Palma himself was called to intervene.
“You’re the cop,” said Bizu The Fixer, shooting Felisberto with his fingers. “What you don’t realise, cop, is that you haven’t a chance,” added The Fixer, who was drunk, slurping his words and accompanying them with extravagant gestures. “Ah, but look! You’ve found my assistant park director. Doctor Tomlinson, how nice to see you at work, you cunt,” added The Fixer, nonchalantly spitting in Tomlinson’s direction. Albertina straightened herself. She took a gun from Samora and pointed it at Bizu The Fixer, who humped the air in her direction. “So, whore, you’re a cop too, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that from the way she sucks cock,” said Bizu. “Either way, you’ll all be dead by morning, so what does it matter?”
“Nobody is coming for you, ‘Bizu’,” said Felisberto, stressing João The Fixer’s Rwandan name. “So you might as well start telling us what is going on here. That way we won’t have to hack you to pieces, like you did to your fellow citizens all those years ago.”
Bizu The Fixer smiled. “Well, as you will all soon be dead and will take this information to your graves, I don’t see the harm in letting you into a little secret. We’re going to be making fucking billions here soon and I’d like you to die knowing the truth,” said Bizu, increasingly slurping his words and punctuating his sentences with dance moves. Felisberto sent Samora to guard the door.
“Selling animals?” said Amisse. The Fixer curled over in uncontrollable laughter.
“Cop, your men are so funny,” said The Fixer, hardly able to stand. He walked over to a corner of the room and was followed by three aimed and loaded weapons. The Fixer put up his hands in mock surrender before taking a small plastic container. He sat down in a chair in the middle of the room and poured the black liquid from the jerry can onto the floor until a small puddle formed.
“Black gold,” said Bizu The Fixer. “Oil. The world’s most precious commodity. Found here
in very large quantities,” added Bizu stirring the puddle on the ground with a stick like a witchdoctor.
“So the park is sat atop an oil field?” said Tomlinson.
“See, you did bring somebody sharp with you cop,” replied Bizu. “Not any oil field, English boy, a huge one that only we know about.”
Amisse gasped in awe. What had The Fixer said?
“Must be worth billions,” said Felisberto thinking aloud.
“See, you can think when you want, cop. In three months we’ll start drilling. A pipeline to Nacala will be built in two years. Three years from now German cars will be running on our petrol and I’ll be one of the richest men in Africa.”
“Then why the nature reserve?” asked Tomlinson.
“The area was a nature reserve before the war and the government wanted to restore it to its original usage. But the locals had always spoken about black liquid pouring out of holes in the ground. When the government put the park up for sale, the Palma Foundation bid and won based on an ambitious environmental proposal.”
There was the link to Palma. Stokes must have known about it. Things were slowly slipping into place for Felisberto.
“But why would you want the World Bank and the eyes of the world on your oil field?” Tomlinson asked.
“Well, you and your colleague Abdulla have solved that for us,” replied Bizu. “Your undisciplined absence, your kidnapping of a child and Abdulla’s death have led the Ministry of the Environment to call for the closure of the park, a move we will naturally not resist,” said The Fixer. He had recovered an element of sobriety.
“And when the park is closed, you’ll be free to drill for oil,” concluded Felisberto.
“Sshhh, somebody’s here,” warned Samora. A car had pulled up outside. Felisberto cuffed Bizu The Fixer and stood behind him with a gun to his head. Amisse turned off the light and they waited in the dark as footsteps approached.
“Anyone home?” It was Palma’s voice, followed by gunshots outside. “Anyone ho-oome?” repeated Palma.
“The cop’s here,” shouted The Fixer. A semi-automatic machine gun fired dozens of rounds into the room. Samora, Felisberto, Tomlinson, Albertina and Amisse threw themselves to the ground. The light came back on after a half-minute blitz. Palma’s three armed bodyguards pointed their weapons at the assembled cast, who returned the suspicion. Felisberto kept his gun aimed at Bizu The Fixer’s head. Palma walked in followed by Clarissa, Bia’s sister, and the distinct trail of frangipani, which soon settled in the room.
“Clarissa dear, let me introduce Comandante Felisberto and his motley crew of rural investigators,” said Palma chuckling. “I’m sure Clarissa needs no introductions. After all, your Comandante had familiar relations with her sister.” Clarissa bowed.
“You killed Bia.” Felisberto had just worked it out. Clarissa laughed. “What do you know, cop?” said Bia’s twin. She spat in the direction of the law enforcement cohort.
“Anyway, now that we’ve done introductions and traded accusations, can I ask exactly what you are doing here? I thought you were dead and buried and that I was about to have an orgy,” Palma said and then added with a note of genuine intrigue, “You never really seem to die when you are killed, though, do you, Comandante?”
“It’s over,” said Felisberto, pointing his gun at Palma and kicking The Fixer to the ground. “We know about your plans to drill for oil here. We know you killed Stokes.”
“I killed Stokes,” said Clarissa. The old fisherman who had witnessed Stokes’ murder remembered hearing a girl and smelling frangipani. Why hadn’t it occurred to the Comandante? It all made sense now. But why?
“My sister was talking about having a baby with that lying white boy,” said Clarissa. “I couldn’t let that happen after what the white boys did to my mother. So I killed her too.”
“Stokes was scum,” said Palma. “He wanted to make all this public. He tried to blackmail me, said he would accept money to keep the papers quiet.”
“The papers?” repeated Felisberto.
“Stokes outlived his own use,” continued Palma, recounting how he and the British journalist had originally gotten on well at first. They had shared double dates with Clarissa and Bia, taken joint fishing holidays and played poker and Monopoly together. So it was a poker die, just not from a Casino, Felisberto realised.
Palma had even employed Stokes as a translator and interpreter in dealings with foreign companies. Then Stokes published the story about animals dying from poisoned water at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. He quoted a local resident who mentioned ‘a black liquid in the water.’
“This is your last night on this earth,” said Palma, “so there’s no point in hiding much anymore. In fact, Comandante, did you ever ask yourself how so much information has leaked from your comando in recent weeks?” teased Palma.
So Paul was the mole, thought Felisberto. “You probably think it was that Malawian, don’t you?” teased Palma, evidently enjoying himself. Felisberto looked at all his officers and hoped he had not misjudged any. “Come now, my dear,” said Palma. Cristina entered holding a gun.
Felisberto nearly dropped his. Raquel’s daughter was the mole all along? She had warned Palma of the Pemba raid? She had warned Palma’s men of Tomlinson’s supposed meeting with the foreign office? Suddenly everything was becoming clear to Comandante Felisberto, albeit too late.
“Why did you do it, Cristina?” asked Amisse.
“Cristina was paid a substantial amount of money for her services, I can assure you,” said Palma, putting an arm around the girl. She looked nervous holding the gun. She wore an oversized evening dress that hung precariously over her shoes. Felisberto thought he glimpsed the girl’s innocence behind the gun pointed at his head. But he couldn’t be sure. She was pointing a loaded gun at is head after all.
Palma shrugged. “A bit awkward, I admit, but tonight you’ll be dead anyway,” said Palma to Felisberto. “And tomorrow I’ll be even richer and soon all of this will be an absent footnote in the broader development of the region.”
“Cristina, drop the gun,” said Felisberto, holding out an arm.
“Shoot him!” roared Palma. Cristina held the gun shaking, keeping it pointed at Felisberto.
“One thing I don’t understand,” said Tomlinson. “If you want to drill for oil, why did you bother running a nature reserve?”
Palma looked Tomlinson up and down with contempt.
“New girlfriend, Comandante?”
“He’s the skinny white boy who I hired to work here,” said Bizu The Fixer.
“So he’s your girlfriend,” said Palma, as Clarissa snorted cocaine.
“Well, girlfriend, whoever you belong to, these things aren’t as easy as putting your hand up an elephant’s ass,” said Palma. “Mozambique, you may have noticed during your brief tenure, is a land full of vultures. Wealth can’t exist. People devour it before it even manifests itself. Discoveries need to be kept quiet, guarded, nurtured.”
“I get it,” said Samora. “A public oil field belongs to the State and all exploration rights need to go through an open bidding process with due diligence observed. But by first attempting to save the nature reserve you found a loophole,” concluded Mossuril’s deputy.
“Your other girlfriend here isn’t as dumb as she looks,” said Palma. “Let us share one last toast before we get this over and done with.” Clarissa poured five glasses from a vintage bottle of whisky and handed them out.
“One man’s fortune is another’s bad luck,” said Palma, raising his glass. Nobody apart from Clarissa joined him. “Oh well,” said Palma and swigged the brown liquid. Palma then ordered Samora, Albertina, Amisse and Tomlinson to face the wall on their knees. Felisberto stayed behind The Fixer. “Kill him,” said Palma. “Do me a favour.” Palma’s men dragged Felisberto and Bizu The Fixer to the wall.
“I’ll get you for this, Palma,” said Bizu upon realising his fate.
“What about me?” said Cristina.
Palma and Clarissa walked to the door and waved. “Goodbye, friends.”
Samora and Felisberto looked at each other resigned to their common fate. They heard the guns cock behind them and then the strangest sound.
“Not so fast,” said Naissone, walking in holding a gun to Palma’s head. Raquel followed with a gun pointed at Clarissa’s. Once inside, Raquel saw Cristina. “Cristina? What are you doing here?” screamed Raquel, pointing the gun at the man threatening her daughter. “Baby, it’s gonna be okay,” Raquel reassured her daughter.
“Drop the guns,” roared Naissone to the three bodyguards. Naiss pushed his gun into Palma’s temple and the latter nodded to his men, who placed the guns slowly on the ground. Clarissa ran away. “Come to mama, baby” cried Raquel.
Cristina ran to her mother. There was blood seeping from her body. Raquel saw that a bullet had ricocheted into her daughter’s ankle. “It’s okay, it’s over,” said Raquel kissing her daughter on the forehead.
“Felis, take the guns,” said Naiss, giving a one-legged salute. This wasn’t the time for pleasantries, thought Felisberto, but he somehow also returned the one-legged salute. His friends had just burst in and saved his life and a little gratitude was probably in order, regardless of the timing. “Are you guys gay?” asked Palma. “I always knew there was something about those two,” he commented for Clarissa’s ears.
Felisberto, Amisse and Samora disarmed the men holding guns but as they did another guard came in shooting. The lights went off and bullets flew round the room. Only when the hailstorm of fire had subsided did Naissone turn on a light on his phone. Palma and Clarissa were gone. As were the armed bodyguards. Bizu The Fixer lay dead on the ground. A stray bullet to the head. Another dead body lay in the doorframe. Presumably the guard who had come in firing last, thought Felisberto. Outside, a car could be heard screeching away.