Counterfeit!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  ‘And when we turned back to look at them, they’d gone,’ said Nathan; ‘the crowd had melted away like smoke in the morning air.’

  ‘And Freedom? Where did you find him?’ asked Annette.

  ‘He was lying against the back wall, partly hidden by some packing cases. That’s why no-one saw him until then. In fact, we almost missed him. We stopped to unchain the dog by the gate and he ran over to Freedom, whimpering and licking his face.’

  ‘He seemed stunned but not hurt otherwise, and I thought it would be safer to bring him back here, Mother. I knew you’d be here and could look after him.’

  Annette just nodded and put her arm around the little boy.

  ‘But how can you be sure it was deliberate?’ asked Lily, who had been sitting silently since the men started telling their story. ‘Could it have been a terrible accident?’

  ‘We wondered that,’ said WB, ‘although they only made liquid products at Mazokapharm, so there should be nothing explosive stored there. But from what Freedom told us in the car, I don’t think there’s much doubt.’ He walked over and squatted down in front of the child, taking the small hand and engulfing it with his own. He whispered gently to him.

  ‘Son, I know it’s really hard, but do you think you can tell us the whole story of what happened? Can you help us find the men who did this?’

  Freedom swallowed hard then nodded his head, but he clung to Annette as he started speaking.

  My sister, Hope, was late for work this morning. She’d been out with the bad men again last night. She didn’t think I knew about them, but I see lots more than she realises. I’m only small and so quiet that often people forget I’m there. Or sometimes I hide behind the door, or in the cupboard, and listen to what people say to her. I worry about her, you see. She’s supposed to look after me. She’s older than me, but I’m the man of the house, or I will be when I get older, so I try to look out for her too.

  Because she was late, Hope ran out of the house without any breakfast and I knew she would be really hungry by dinnertime. So I made some food for her. Just bread and preserve—that’s all we had in the cupboard—but it’s what she always eats for dinner anyway. I carried it carefully to the factory, although I wasn’t sure how I was going to be able to get it to her. Once the women go to work, they’re not allowed out until the end of their shift. But I thought I’d be able to slip in at the back, through the warehouse. One of the men who shifts the boxes around, Wally his name is, he likes her very much and he sometimes lets me go and see her if the boss isn’t around.

  I don’t like the boss very much. Mr Kabwe used to be my friend, but since the bad men came, he’s not the same anymore. He frowns all the time and makes the women work long hours.

  When I got to the factory, Mr Kabwe’s car wasn’t in the usual place outside, but I knew I still had to be careful. He doesn’t always bring the car; sometimes he walks up the hill from the town. I hid behind the empty packing cases at the back of the plot and waited to see if Wally was working today. Then I heard a vehicle pull into the yard. It was a big grey van, with blacked-out windows and I guessed it was the bad men. The back of the van opened and they jumped out—more than I’ve ever seen there before. There were about nine of them I think. They were dropping barrels out of the van and rolling them towards the factory. They stood them against the wall and the sun was shining full on them. But that wasn’t right! Usually, the drums are rolled straight into the warehouse to protect the contents from the heat. It’s only the empty ones that can go out in the sun. They must have been in a real hurry, to leave them there. I wondered if Wally would let me help him roll them around to the loading bay. He does that sometimes—and then shares his dinner with me, or gives me a penny or two to spend as a reward. I always give them to Hope; she doesn’t earn very much money and it all goes on food and paying the bills for the house, so she’s always glad of some extra.

  Anyway, I watched the men finish unloading the barrels and then one of them walked around to the back of the building, and went into the warehouse. There was a grinding noise and the big roller door came down and locked into place. I thought that was very strange too. The doors are never closed during the day. Then he came out of the side door with Wally, who looked really strange. He kept looking across at the other man and licking his lips as though he was really thirsty. The man pointed to the padlock on the small door. Wally shook his head—but the man shoved him in the shoulder and pointed again. I saw something in his hand; it flashed in the sunshine—I think it was a gun. Wally put the padlock in place and then the other man grabbed his arm and marched him across the yard and pushed him into the van. I wanted to run after them and shout ‘let my friend go,’ but I was too scared. So I just stayed where I was and watched what was going on.

  I kept hoping Mr Kabwe would come back. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Wally. They’re old friends from schooldays. Wally tells me sometimes about those days. He says Mr Kabwe was very funny, always laughing and playing jokes on people, before he had his accident. He’s not like that now.

  Once Wally was in the van, most of the other men climbed in after him. The driver got back in his cab. There was just one man left—the man who pushed Wally. He walked around, checking all the barrels; he seemed to be counting them. And he put little packages on the tops of some of them. They really are going to get hot in this sunshine, I thought. Then he locked the padlock on the outside door. So both doors were locked and I couldn’t get in to see Hope. I knew there was a spare key somewhere; Mr Kabwe always has one hidden in case he forgets his, but no-one else knows where it is, apart from the boss himself and his secretary. The man lit a cigarette and threw the match through one of the windows into the factory. It was the room where they stored all the packaging materials, the cartons and labels, so I knew it would burn quickly. I had to do something to warn all the women. But I was too scared to move while the men were there. The man laughed then climbed into the van and it drove away.

  I ran across the yard and banged on the door of the factory. I screamed for Hope and after a couple of minutes I heard one of the other women call back to me. I told her about the man and the match and told her they needed to put the fire out. I said I would run to Mr Kabwe’s house and get him to bring the key so we could let everyone out. ‘You’re a good boy, Freedom,’ she said. Then she ran to warn the others. But it was too late. There was a bang and a whoosh and a sheet of flame flew out of the window. The fire was too big for them to do anything about. They only had one little extinguisher. I could hear the women screaming and banging on the door. I didn’t know whether I should go to find Mr Kabwe or stay and try to help them. Then the woman came back. ‘Freedom,’ she screamed, ‘run down to the town, get help. We’re going to try to climb out of the window at the back, but it’s very small. Run quickly.’ But I couldn’t. My legs didn’t seem to work. I just stood and watched the flames. They were licking out of the windows and reaching up to the tin roof. The women were still screaming and moaning. I couldn’t tell where Hope was, whether she was okay or not; my sister can’t speak, you see, but I knew she was in there. I could feel her presence.

  I still didn’t know what to do; to run into town or stay and help. Then there was a huge bang, followed by lots of others. The barrels just split apart. I watched as they went off, one after another, and then I tried to run away, but I left it too late! The ground shook, I felt myself picked up and flung across the yard and slammed into the wall at the other side. Then everything went black. By the time I woke up, the building was completely destroyed and the screaming had stopped.

  As the boy stopped speaking, no-one in the room moved or made a sound, and then...

  ‘How many…?’ whispered Suzanne.

  ‘Ten women, we think,’ Nathan said, her horror reflected in his face. ‘The administration building was empty. We don’t think there were any men in the place; only the warehouseman, Wally, was supposed to be there—and Freedom says he saw him driven away. But whether to
safety or more danger, who knows?’

  ‘How could anyone do this?’ Charlie burst out suddenly, banging her fist on the table and making the cutlery jump and jangle in the forgotten soup bowls. ‘My God, I thought what we did to each other in the Middle East was bad enough. But to let your own people burn alive like that. It’s not human.’

  Nathan and WB looked up in surprise at her outburst, but it was the small boy who spoke, pulling away from Annette as she led him from the room and turning to face them.

  ‘Not only our own people,’ he said, shaking his head vehemently. ‘The man in charge wasn’t one of our own people.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Suzanne asked.

  ‘He had a funny accent. He talked like the Terminator. The bad man who burnt down the factory was white.’ Then he flung himself into Annette’s arms and began sobbing noisily. She picked him up and carried him upstairs.

  Nathan and WB sat down at the table, just staring at the food in front of them. Neither man seemed to have any appetite. Charlie cleared her throat but said nothing.

  Suzanne knew the likelihood of Kabwe being innocent was fading. She’d been hoping all along that this son of WB’s old friend was just out of his depth, mixed up in something he didn’t understand, even led astray a little—but always redeemable. But now it didn’t look like this was very likely. If he had planned his getaway so carefully, it looked as though he knew exactly what was going on; which meant he must have known about the plans for the fire. Although she found it really hard to accept, it looked like he had either ordered the destruction of his own factory, or he’d at least known it was going to happen and wanted to be away from there before it did.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Suzanne,’ WB said, taking her hand in his, ‘but it looks like the trail’s gone cold and we’re no nearer finding out who kidnapped you, or why, than we were when we went out this morning.’

  22: KENYA; DEC 2004

  The Honourable Walter Mukooyo hadn’t shown much enthusiasm for the IHF campaign when they’d crossed swords at the Swaziland conference and Suzanne didn’t really expect his attitude to change. But if there was a chance of getting support from him, it would add weight, not just in Kenya, but in neighbouring countries too. Chibesa had requested a follow-up discussion before Suzanne had even left London, but the long silence had convinced her their altercation was neither forgotten nor forgiven. However, she was wrong. And during her fourth day at the Harawa ranch, she got some good news.

  ‘But I can make some excuse; tell them you have to get back to London—or you’re still out of town,’ Chibesa said during his nightly phone calls to Ndola, when he told Suzanne he’d finally heard back from the Minister’s office and the answer was positive.

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to risk upsetting him again. I’m feeling much better now—and although Nathan’s a wonderful host, I think it’s probably time his unexpected guests removed themselves and left him in peace to grow his roses.’

  ‘But don’t get your hopes up too much,’ Chibesa said when Suzanne complimented him on setting up the appointment. ‘Walter Mukooyo is notoriously good at skipping out of meetings he doesn’t want to take part in.’

  As Suzanne, with Charlie and WB, left for the airport next morning, she looked back towards the place that had been her safe haven for the past five days and reflected on the kind young ranch owner who had taken her in and given her the respite she needed to recover from her ordeal. She had been drawn to him from that first moment in the hall when he caught her smelling the roses, and from his behaviour during the first couple of days, she’d suspected he was attracted to her. Then Lily’s appearance had reminded her she was only a visitor in this world and Nathan had a life of his own. But she couldn’t help feeling a little sad as the ranch disappeared from view.

  After a couple of days in Lusaka, the team headed for the airport once more, bound for Kenya. Suzanne had questioned whether it was really necessary for all four of them to go, but her companions were adamant they weren’t letting her out of their sight again, even if Charlie knew she would have to stay in the hotel while they went to the meeting at the Ministry.

  Mukooyo was a powerful and influential man, not just in his own country, but also in the whole of Southern Africa. There was talk of him taking a more regional role once his term of office in Kenya was finished. Something in the Common Market of Southern and Eastern Africa—or COMESA as Chibesa tended to call it—or maybe even a UN Ambassador.

  ‘Although actually, I’d rather sit on the Board of the Olympics Committee or the African Football Association,’ he’d joked once in an interview Suzanne watched on television. Mukooyo was well known for his love of sport and was often spotted in the VIP box at national and international sporting occasions.

  When they arrived at Parliament House, the team was shown into the Minister’s office and they had been waiting nearly an hour for Walter Mukooyo to arrive.

  ‘The Minister has been called away to an urgent meeting with the President,’ said his PA—a ‘traditionally built’ African lady whose brightly coloured dress carried a picture of said President. ‘But he asked me to make his apologies, give you tea and beg you to wait until he returns.’

  Chibesa had already alerted them to the fact that the Regional Softball Championships were being held in the country at present and both the President and the Minister were big fans. They all suspected the urgent meeting, if it existed at all, would be taking place at the National Stadium.

  ‘So, at that rate, we can expect the Minister to be back here in about half an hour,’ Chibesa predicted now, as their desultory talk ran out and they all started looking at their watches. The office was decked out in white wooden furniture with gold hangings, curtain ties and door fittings. The chairs were upholstered in a black and white fake zebra fur, which took Suzanne right back again to their visit to Swaziland.

  It was exactly thirty-three minutes later when the door opened and the Minister breezed in, full of apologies and calling for tea at the same time.

  ‘Good meeting, Minister?’ WB said as the two men shook hands and clasped arms like old friends. ‘By the way, how’s the softball going?’

  Mukooyo, who was in the process of turning to shake Chibesa’s hand, looked back at WB in surprise.

  ‘I’m so sorry! I’ve been too busy to follow much of this week’s sporting fixtures.’ He gestured to his PA. ‘I can get Esme to ring up and find out for you, if you like?’ Oh, he’s good, thought Suzanne, he’s very good. There was barely a hesitation or a flicker in his eyes to give away the fact that he might be more up-to-date on the sports results than he would admit.

  ‘Not a problem,’ grinned WB, ‘I was just making conversation.’ The Minister nodded before taking a cup from his PA and joining the team at the seated area near the huge window overlooking the Nairobi suburbs with the game reserve on the horizon.

  ‘Over there’s our famous Game Park barbecue restaurant,’ he said. ‘Have you had a chance to enjoy it yet?’

  ‘No, Minister,’ Suzanne said somewhat frostily. She had been largely ignored while the Minister was greeting the two men, until WB pulled her forward and reminded Mukooyo she was the leader of the team. ‘But we’re hoping to get a reservation for tonight.’

  The Minister clicked his fingers to his PA who was loitering in the background. ‘Esme, ring the Game Park and tell them to give these good people my table for this evening. I won’t be going there until the weekend.’ The PA bowed and left the room. Mukooyo waved away their thanks.

  ‘Okay, I’ve kept you waiting long enough,’ he said; ‘what can I do for you?’ He addressed his question to WB, but it was Suzanne who replied. She brought him up to date on progress with the IHF project since they had all met in Swaziland. Following his own brief but tempestuous appearance, Mukooyo had left one of his juniors as a representative for the remainder of the conference.

  ‘Have you seen his report yet, Minister?’ she asked. But he was already
shaking his head.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. We had a verbal debrief when he first returned, of course, but I’ve not seen anything in writing yet.’ He turned once more to the PA, who had just returned and slipped a scrap of paper into Chibesa’s hand. ‘Please check with our delegate on when his report will be due.’ He paused, and then went on: ‘No, on second thoughts, set up a meeting for the beginning of next week. Then tell him I want the report by this Friday, so I can take it home and peruse it over the weekend.’

  Suzanne would have been more impressed if the Minister had already been through this process without her having to prompt him. After all, the conference had been more than two months ago. Still, it was a start—and she also knew politicians like this, with several warring nations in the region, had other things to think about. She decided to put the memory of their confrontation in Swaziland behind her and have another go at convincing Walter Mukooyo to support them.

  ‘We’re really hoping you will agree to champion one of the pilot schemes here in Kenya,’ she concluded. ‘It would give great weight to the whole project if we had such an important national—and international—figure on board.’

  ‘Miss Jones,’ said Mukooyo, ‘do you realise what a difficult job I have in this country? I’ve got a population of forty-five million souls. And the Good Lord, in his wisdom, has seen fit to give some three million or more serious illnesses. Unfortunately, the Good Lord has not seen fit to give my colleagues in the Finance Ministry any understanding of the problem and so they are less than generous when it comes to my budget. It’s my responsibility to see that all those people—and anyone else who needs it—get the necessary medicine. Frankly, if some of the pills and potions we supply are produced unofficially by a low technology factory in Africa, rather than by the expensive methods used in some of your Western factories, I’m not sure what harm it does—and it certainly means I can supply more of my people’s requirements.’