by Alex MacBeth
Three hours later Samora was standing on the same spot where the Comandante had been shot. Neatly arranged wreaths and flowers decorated the cordoned-off area. A stain of blood still stained the pavement and Samora remembered the same row of taxis in the background from the news report. He stepped in one and asked the driver to take him to ministry of oil and gas. “Dressed like that?” quizzed the driver.
Half an hour later Samora was standing on the steps of a huge stone building on a large boulevard. The words ‘Ministry of Oil and Gas’ loomed large above him. Samora swallowed two painkillers and thrust his way up the stairs and through the main entrance to the lobby. Men in suits were holding quiet conversation. Samora found the reception and manoeuvred his way over to the area in pain.
“I need to speak to Minister Frangopelo,” said Samora, leaning on the wooden surface in front of the girl behind the counter.
“Your name, sir?” the receptionist asked.
“Samora Mariano,” he replied.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the desk worker, scrutinising Samora’s potential for such a rendezvous.
“No, but I need to speak to him,” Samora replied.
“Everybody needs to speak to the minister,” replied the receptionist.
“My boss was supposed to see him today but he was shot on the way here. I’m here to brief him on why it happened,” he added.
“Your boss or the minister?” asked the girl, barely lifting her eyes.
“The minister.”
He showed his badge to the girl. The receptionist dialled a number on the phone and waited. Thirty seconds later she turned again to Samora.
“Take a seat, somebody will be with you shortly,” said the receptionist. Another girl came fifteen minutes later and led Samora to the minister, once at least a dozen security officers were satisfied he didn’t pose any threat. Frangopelo was waiting in a large room with an oak desk. Another man, also in a suit, sat on a sofa browsing an iPad. A large glass window looked onto the boulevard below. A portrait of the president hung on the wall. Samora had never been in such grand surroundings and he stepped in hesitantly.
“Samora,” said Minister Frangopelo walking over to the door to greet his guest. “My severest condolences for the Comandante. But he is hanging onto life and if he is as much of a fighter as I have heard he is, then he is still in with a good chance. Let me also say this: what a pleasure to have a man with such a fine name in our offices,” added the minister, pointing to a portrait of Samora Machel, Mozambique’s first president, on the wall. Samora looked at the warm smile emanating from the portrait of the bearded man. He accepted the minister’s invitation to sit.
“Pleasantries aside,” the minister continued with a change of tone, “as you will have heard, we have shut down the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. Most of the drilling equipment was moved in the night before Special Forces from Maputo could arrive on the scene. The problem is the paperwork for that park was lost years ago during my predecessor Antonio Palma’s era. We have no record of any transactions related to the reserve at all in our archives,” said Frangopelo.
Samora pulled out the contracts he had found in the monopoly board and put them on the table. “Maybe these can help. Minister, do you use Bluetooth?”
“I do,” said the minister’s assistant sat on the sofa, who up until now had said nothing. Samora Bluetoothed the recording of Palma, Clarissa and Bia to the assistant. He played it on his own phone as he walked out. The minister ran after him. “Thank you,” he said panting as he caught up with Samora on the winding marble staircase. Samora shook Frangopelo’s hand and walked out. The minister’s car was waiting for him. He didn’t even have to tell the driver where he wanted to go.
He found Felisberto on a bed in a private recuperation room at the Military Hospital. A doctor explained that the bullet had not hit any key parts of Felisberto’s brain. The Comandante had been aggressively resuscitated upon initial arrival at the hospital where he had been diagnosed by the country’s leading brain surgeon, Doctor Kirunga, who was now briefing Samora. Felisberto had shown sufficient brainstem function for them to operate. An emergency clot evacuation had been performed and the bullet had been removed.
“Has he woken up?” asked Samora. Doctor Kirunga shook his head.
“Is he going to wake up?” asked Samora, this time less hopeful.
“We will know more about his recovery in the next two weeks,” said the doctor. “Right now I would say his chances are fifty-fifty.” Samora and Doctor Kirunga shook hands and the latter left. Samora stared at the Comandante. Various pipes were feeding blood and other liquids into his head. A brace supported his neck. The eyes were motionless, thoughtless, yet Samora thought he could see a sparkle of life in them still. The Lieutenant suddenly burst into tears. He could bear no more and he left his number with Doctor Kirunga before escaping out of the hospital room, down the stairs, back to the airport, through the skies to Nampula and along the road back to Mossuril.
***
Tomlinson had found himself unattended in the frenzy of Samora’s injury and the later attack on the Comandante. He had decided it was time for him to head home at last. He met with Mrs Hamisi and found Assuadi enjoying his new surroundings with his adoptive brothers and sisters. Tomlinson promised to send money for Assuadi’s education – even though no one had asked him to. “I’ll raise more… in Europe, to help, with the boy’s upkeep,” he stuttered nervously. “Don’t worry,” said Mrs Hamisi, her wrinkles exuding all her wisdom, “the boy will be well cared for.” Tomlinson said goodbye to Assuadi and promised him that they would meet again, “either in mine or your country,” one day. “Then better in your country,” replied Assuadi. “We’ve already seen mine.” Tomlinson gave Assuadi the shoebox birdcage.
As he drove down the rugged road to Nampula the adventures he had lived in the last four weeks flashed before him in fast forward. He had come to help repopulate a nature reserve. Yet the only thing he had populated was scandal. A gutter press journalist had already called him for his side of the story. Tomlinson had said he would get back to him. First he would call his contact at the Foreign Office. As he drove past the turn off to the Nampula Wildlife Reserve in Namialo for the last time, it seemed a fitting time to do so.
“Hello,” said the posh Westminster voice.
“It’s Christopher,” said Tomlinson.
“Tomlinson?”
“That’s right. Charles?”
“Yes, yes,” said Charles, “if you’re calling about your report on the wildlife reserve, you needn’t worry. You probably haven’t heard… well, why would you, you’re likely in the middle of nowhere, but the whole thing has gone bellies up. Seems we had a bad egg in the basket at St James Street. Anyway, do take care Christopher.”
***
The Source had made his decision shortly after receiving a tip-off from a Mozambican contact that the police had sequestered the reserve. He had spent hours sweating over it. But by the first hours of daylight his mind was clear. He logged onto his computer and signed into his proxy server so he wouldn’t be traced. He went to lastminute.com and booked the cheapest flight he could get to a destination that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United Kingdom. He settled for Ethiopia. Six hours later he was in Addis Ababa. He found a small Internet cafe and accessed a deceased colleague’s VPN server, before putting on a pair of kitchen gloves he had bought at a local supermarket. He typed a brief resignation letter and printed it on plain paper. He sent the signed copy, via a friend in Kuala Lumpur, who worked in shipping. He plugged in a USB and began to transfer all his communications with Mason and Stock, plus all his reports about the park as well as a fifteen page summary he had compiled of all the international laws broken. He uploaded it all into an FTP account and copied and pasted the details into an email. He added addresses for the Serious Fraud Office, the Foreign Office and the Metropolitan Police. He looked over the bulk of data and clicked send. A Pashto proverb from his time in Afgha
nistan came to mind: “Revenge achieved in a century is swift.”
… …
Podolski was eating his Pret-á-Manger lunch at his desk when his secretary came running in hysterical. “There’s a dozen officers in the foyer,” she said frantically. The officers burst into Podolski’s office and handcuffed him. “You are under arrest on suspicion of murder,” said a tall, stout police officer with a moustache. “You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court.”
***
When Samora turned on the news in Mossuril, he only wished the Comandante could have been with him to see the leading story. Undercover secret agents from an elite army unit had arrested Palma. There was a shot of him and Clarissa being walked out of their Pemba villa, handcuffed by agents in balaclavas. ‘Former minister in major oil scandal’ read the headline on the cover of the country’s major daily. Frangopelo was talking about the bravery of several officers in Nampula Province. “These men deserve to be given the highest national honours for their sacrifice in uncovering these crimes against the state,” he’d said. Samora, Daniel and Amisse smiled as they toasted over a glass of baobab juice. “He didn’t mean you guys,” said Samora.
Samora limped outside. The moon was low in the sky and lit the centre of the boulevard in Mossuril. The flag was flying at half-mast to honour the Comandante fighting for his life in a coma. The steps of the comando were covered in ‘Get well soon’ notes and good wishes from hundreds of members of the local community. Messages had come in from across the country. The Comandante’s story had been heavily featured in news reports since the scandal at the reserve had gone viral. In his deep sleep, Felisberto had become something of a national symbol of mourning. Groups of students and activists held a vigil outside the hospital on the first night. More than seventy-five police stations across the country flew their flag at half-mast for Mossuril’s comatose Comandante.
Samora felt he needed to talk to someone. He went for Mora’s number when his phone rang. He picked up.
“He’s awake,” said Doctor Kirunga. “And he wants you to tell his mother that he won’t be home for dinner“.
***
The man opened the front door and stood in silence. Nobody was there. Below a valley of trees shielded the small wooden cabin from the road on the other side of the river. Darkness kept everything distant. As he stared at the mountain retreat Bizu The Fixer claimed he had built with his own hands, he could feel the warm trickle of thick liquid on the inside of his left leg. It was the first time anybody had drawn blood from him this century. Revenge, at any price, would be Colonel Li’s new muse.
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