Chapter 7
Robert Markham stepped clumsily out of the car. His left foot was in a plaster cast. He put his weight on his stick, and levered himself upright. His chauffeur, a large man, more of a bodyguard, knew better than to assist him.
“Be ready to collect me when I phone you,” said Markham, as he made for the hotel lobby.
Inside in the bar on the ground floor was Markham’s solicitor an Afro-Indian called Malik Kadakia, owner of a twelve strong commercial practice based in Jo’burg. Every Tuesday morning he met his client Robert Markham in this bar. He knew that Markham believed he was cheating his solicitor into obtaining free professional advice. Markham did not know that his solicitor loaded all his bills to cover this service.
Markham hobbled into the bar, looked across at the window table, and there was Kadakia, sitting with a coffee and the hotel copy of The Daily Telegraph.
Markham gestured to the barman, and made his way to the solicitor’s table.
“Did you fall over something?” asked the solicitor, looking up from the newspaper.
“Worse than that. My house was attacked last night. About a dozen natives in a truck. Some of them stayed outside my house shooting to keep the guards at bay. The rest of them tied me up to a chair in the study, tried to torture me to give them the safe code. When they found out it was on a timer, they strapped some explosives to the safe, and left me there. That was a difficult time I can tell you. When the safe blew, a bookcase was dislodged, fell on my ankle and broke it. I lay there in a snowstorm of paper. They looked into the room, and then got out in a hurry.”
“They went without stealing anything?”
“The paper snowstorm was half a million dollar notes, blown to fuck. It was a green snowstorm.”
Kadakia smirked. “Perhaps it is time to leave the country.”
“I would if I could find a safer place. One where people weren’t looking for me.”
“That reminds me,” said the solicitor, gesturing to the newspaper in his hand. “I have just been reading that your colleague in England has been shot dead. In Chester, I believe.”
The barman came across with a whisky on the rocks. Markham picked the glass up, and drained it in one gulp. He gestured to the barman for a refill.
“That serves the man right for not watching out for himself. Also for living too close to his marks. I’ve not been to bed last night. I spent most of the time at the hospital having my bone reset.” He waved in the direction of his ankle. “I really ought to have something to eat. Perhaps bacon, eggs, toast.” He waved again at the barman, who sent a boy over with the whisky. He told the boy what he wanted to eat, glanced at Kadakia with raised eyebrows.
“I have eaten already this morning, thank you.”
Markham’s breakfast came, the smell of it making his mouth water. He put his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his brow, felt an unfamiliar card tucked into his top pocket. Pulled it out. It was the Maswatiland embassy invitation. He pushed it over the table at Kadakia, who was again immersed in the newspaper.
“Have you ever had one of these?” asked Markham.
Kadakia looked up at Markham, then down at the table following Markham’s pointing finger. He picked up the card. Read it aloud.
The Johannesburg Ambassador of Maswatiland
Cordially invites
Mr Robert M Markham
To a reception to welcome the artist John McBride
24th August 7.00pm
RSVP
Underneath was the address for the RSVP.
“Are you going?” asked the solicitor. “That would be some place to live, eh? Maswatiland. Peaceful, perfect veld country, land cheap, houses too. But you need a Maswatiland passport, and you would never get one of those, they don’t hand them on a platter.”
“I’d never even thought of living there until you mentioned it today.” Markham was shoveling egg and bacon into his mouth, grabbing for the toast and forcing that in as well. “Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
Kadakia looked away in disgust, turned to his newspaper again. “On a different note, how are the companies going?”
Markham shrugged. “Nothing new that you don’t know. Not much money coming in from big tenants ripping me off. We should start a new round of lawsuits.”
Kadakia looked at him mildly. “When you pay me for the last round of writs.”
Markham suddenly found that he was in a hurry, staring at his watch, getting his phone out, speed dialing his chauffeur. “We’re late, get the car round now.” Scraping the last of the egg and bacon from the plate.
Out in front of the hotel in his car, sitting next to his bodyguard, Markham relaxed with his plaster-clad leg stretched in to the foot well. “Do you remember where the estate company has its offices, the company that runs where I live?”
Besides being a chauffeur and bodyguard, the man had a fair knowledge of Jo’burg. “That would be the Standton First estatecCompany, yes?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Drive there.” He added, “Please.”
Twenty minutes later, Markham’s BMW series 7 was edging up to the reception area of the estate company.
Markham limped up to the reception desk. Gave the girl his card.
“Regretfully, I am in my house in your gated and guarded estate last night, and despite all your armed guards protecting me, my house is broken into by a mass of criminals waving weapons and shooting up the area. They break my leg,” – he gestured down at his plaster cast, “…and tie me up, blow up my safe, and get away scot free. All this time I see not a one of your fabulous armed guards.”
All the time, Markham had been speaking in a low tone, so that the receptionist had to lean forward to hear him. Suddenly he raised his voice:
“This is not good enough. I pay for a gated community. I expect to get just that!”
The girl cowered, began to splutter platitudes. Markham cut her off, said
“Get me your Managing Director, NOW!”
The girl worked the phones, not daring to meet Markham’s eye. Then she said: “He is coming down now.”
Markham turned round, his back to the desk, leaning on it with his elbows. He surveyed the reception area, saw a suited man hurry out of a door.
“Come on, I haven’t got all day,” he shouted. The manager bustled him into a side office, pulled out a chair.
“I am sorry that there has been an incident last night. I have been there this morning to see you, but you weren’t there.”
Markham’s ire was once more raised. “Of course I wasn’t there. The house is a wreck. What I want you to do is to give me the keys to another house on the estate. But, listen carefully. Do not tell the guards which house I am in.”
“You suspect my guards of treachery?”
“Yes, of course I do. Until I can relocate from your so-called safe estate, I don’t want any information about me passing to the guards. Is that understood?
Otherwise I shall sue you for the present disaster. In fact, I may do that anyway.
Please give me the keys to another house on the estate, now. At once.”
The manager picked up the phone, spoke a few words and instantly the receptionist came in holding a set of keys.
The Ponzi Men Page 7