Chapter 9
The Maswatiland Jo’burg Embassy was a Victorian six bedroom house in a terrace of identical houses. Two other of the houses had also been converted into embassies. Another was an investment bank. Altogether they gave the street some class.
McBride was in the salon where the reception was to be held. His paintings, and some easels borrowed from the frame dealer had been stacked in the back of the Range Rover for the journey. The framer had put two of the paintings in pale oak frames with white mounts. The remainder, eight of them, had not been framed, but had been mounted, and these would sit on the easels. The two framed paintings had already been hung side by side on one wall. McBride was standing back, ensuring that they were level. Mapoza, the king’s chauffeur and by now McBride’s handyman, was erecting the easels.
The king came into the room.
“What do you think, Mr McBride?”
McBride looked across. The king was wearing a wig, hair straightened and greying. He had a grey moustache, and was wearing a pale grey western suit. He looked rakish, a slightly dodgy character.
“Excellent. Nothing like the king. You look like your slightly criminal brother would. If you had a brother, of course.”
“Have you not looked on the internet lately? I am my half-brother according to Wikipedia.”
McBride knew that Brigadier Miller was not to be present tonight. The pretender to the throne would not be mixing with the military he would shortly be overthrowing. More staff were entering, bringing trestle tables, lining them against the far wall from the exhibition, cladding them with tablecloths. Bringing dishes of finger buffet items, and on one end, glasses and bottles. The show was about to begin. The ambassador entered, dark suit and tie. Medals worn below his breast pocket. Medals, wondered McBride, is he ex-military, too? Or perhaps an Olympics star?
The ambassador stationed himself near the door, just as the chimes from the front door rang out. A servant led the first guests in, presented them to the ambassador. The king, in his disguise, was presented next and then McBride. The guests made straight to the buffet, and McBride stood near the paintings. On a small desk there was a visitor’s book. McBride’s aim was to collect names of guests. These could then be emailed by Ian Smith in a push for sales. If someone wanted to make a purchase today, they were to indicate the fact in the visitor book.
The first half an hour passed quickly for McBride. He chatted with most of the guests as they looked at the paintings. There were three possible sales. The room was comfortably full, still room to circulate. A lot of people knew each other. The Jo’burg elite, McBride reckoned. A comfortable buzz of conversation.
A loud male voice attracted McBride’s attention. Over by the entrance, a tall overweight man in a black suit, a plaster cast protruding from one trouser leg. In the opposite hand, a stout walking stick. He was fifty or a little older, red faced. He walked over to get himself a drink. Or even two thought McBride. Undoubtedly Markham, lured in by greed.
McBride was talking to a couple who were looking at his painting of the lioness with two cubs, drinking in the early morning light at the waterhole. A hand touched his shoulder to attract his attention, and swinging round, McBride came face to face with Markham.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Markham slurped at his whisky. “I just wanted to meet you. Haven’t got long, you know. Meeting in an hour downtown. Robert Markham’s the name.”
McBride shook the offered hand. The couple had drifted off, looking offended. Couldn’t be helped.
“This your first time in South Africa, Mr McBride?”
“Yes it is, actually.”
“Shitty country, I can tell you. Better during apartheid than it is now. Masses of poverty, whites as well as blacks. Hundreds of thousands of people living below the poverty line. White Afrikaners living in squalor here in Coronation Park. Old caravans, huts built of packing cases, tents, you name it. No sanitation. If you can afford it you live in the gated communities. Private guards, you know. Then a truck full of armed criminals break through the barriers, robbing and shooting.”
McBride raised his eyebrows. What was the man ranting about?
Markham didn’t stop, seemed unable to stop. “Happened to me last week.”
He pointed at the plaster on his leg. “Robbed. They blew up the safe.”
He looked at the paintings for a few seconds. “Of course I’d leave the country if there was somewhere better in Africa. Maswatiland sounds interesting. Is that where you painted these animals?”
“Yes, it was actually. The king invited me.”
Markham pointed with his empty glass. “That the king?”
“No, that’s his brother.” The king, who had been covertly watching the conversation, edged over. “Let me introduce him. You address him as Sir, though he is a prince.” The king shook hands with Markham, trying to look interested.
“I was just saying to this young artist fella, living in South Africa is terrible. I hear Maswatiland has a higher standard of living.”
“That’s true,” said the king. “We are lucky to have tin and copper in profusion, and, of course, tourism. We have no less than three safari reserves. The climate is good, mainly Highveld.”
“So I could move there? I talked to my solicitor the other day, and he said to live there, you needed a Maswatiland passport.”
“That is true. The king does not issue passports to foreigners.” He stared at Markham. “Except in exceptional circumstances.”
“So that is it?”
“If you were very rich, and I’m talking in the hundreds of millions, it may be possible to discuss the matter further. Not here, of course,” he said, looking round in what he imagined was a furtive manner. “You would have to meet me in my hotel, here in Jo’burg. I am there for a couple of days.” McBride thought that the king was overacting, but Markham appeared not to notice. The king went on, “I’m staying at The Four Seasons.Ask for the Prince of Maswatiland at the desk. Can you be there tomorrow at two o’clock?”
Markham looked like the cat that had got the cream. “Yes, Sir, I would be pleased to meet you then.”
“So he swallowed the bait,” said the king, watching Markham limping out of the door, the cast banging against the floor.
“Yes, so far.” McBride stood next to the king. “He’s not as stupid as he tries to make out. And I guess, though he should be rich, given the scams he’s run, he’s not exactly cash-rich.”
“You mean you might not get the brigadier’s cash back. And yours, too, of course.” The king looked worried. Dressed as his dodgy brother, the expression clashed.
“Remember only one thing. The hook is the chance to get a passport. That is what drives him.” He looked at the king, remembered who he was, and said: “That’s my opinion, Sir.”
The Ponzi Men Page 9