Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  Chapter 2

  The marble table in the corner of the room served as a bar. Bottles of Armand de Brignac Champagne stood in silver ice buckets. The golden contents of the Glenmorangie Signet single malt refracted bullion bars of light across the room and the deep cut crystal glasses painted orgiastic rainbows of color onto the pale cream tabletop. There were no waiters. No wine stewards and no hostesses. Even the armed guards were stationed outside the room. The doors were locked.

  A Cambridge audio system discreetly filled any potential uncomfortable pauses with Classical music and the air slowly took on a blue-gray tinge from the exhaled cigar smoke. There were seven males, all middle to later middle age. All seemingly cast from the same mould with small differences. Like cabbage patch dolls. Average height, running to fat, their pear shaped bodies concealed well behind hand tailored English suits. A thickset Nigerian, wearing a traditional Agbada, stood out from the rest. The round pink faces contrasting with his burnished defined features, his arrogant walk. His power. All showed signs of manicures and facials.

  As well as the Nigerian, another African man stood out in his difference. Tall and graceful. Dressed in a maroon velvet jacket. Obviously the host. From their accents it was easy to tell that the Nigerian was the only foreigner. It was also fairly obvious that he was here as an observing guest. As opposed to a client. The rest spoke with the flat vowels and abrupt sentences of native South Africans. The host had purposely kept foreigners from the meetings. They were an unknown ingredient. He could exert little pressure on those who lived and traded outside of his borders. And he was a man who thrived on exerting pressure. The host had met all of them at least three times before and, although he knew every small detail of their lives from sexual proclivities to approximate bank balances, he referred to them by number only. Mr. Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen. The pretence that they were dealing under the protection of anonymity made them feel more at ease. Like revelers at a masked ball. Clandestine, aloof. Above persecution. He allowed them their small fantasy.

  The atmosphere was tense. But not in a negative way. Perhaps apprehensive would describe it better. The host clapped his hands and showed the guests to a row of leather wingbacks that faced the one wood paneled wall, standing back perhaps ten feet from the paneling. At the touch of a remote the music stopped, lights dimmed and a large screen descended silently from the ceiling. The room immediately turned into a private cinema. A frisson of excitement rippled through the guests. Race horses in the stalls. Sprinters at the blocks. Bulldogs and prime rib.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ greeted the host. ‘The auction will take place as before. We have a total of thirteen objects d’art to bid on.’ There was a titter of amusement at this small witticism. ‘As always, we will show a minute long preview after which the bidding will start. Please remember, gentlemen, that you are bidding on the worldwide rights. All bids are final and binding and will be paid via bank transfer directly after the end of tonight’s trading.’ A finger pressed a remote control button and the DVD projector whirred into life.

  Bidding started at forty thousand dollars and ratcheted up in tranches of ten thousand until it finally stalled at eighty thousand. The next eleven bids reached similar prices, one as high as one hundred and ten, one as low as seventy. A total of a little over one million one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

  Before he started the thirteenth viewing the host busied himself refilling drinks and cutting fresh cigars. Once again lights were lowered. Silk clad rumps were sat upon leather. The host rubbed his hands together. ‘Gentlemen. I have saved this one until last. I am sure that you will all agree, the wait will have been worth it. This, my friends, is truly a masterpiece,’

  Lights. Sound….

  The film lasted twenty-seven minutes and was shown in its entirety. And at the end the room stank of sweat and lust and something else. The stench of Gomorrah.

  Bidding started at five hundred thousand and the competition lasted perhaps forty seconds before number Fourteen closed the bids, topping out at nine hundred and twenty thousand. The bidders clapped politely. Congratulations were given. Toasts were made.

  And somewhere, not that far away, the Beast attacked the bars of its cage and howled to get out.

  The host showed the last of his clients to the door, bar the Nigerian whom he asked to stay. A hand on his shoulder. He poured them each a generous measure of single malt, handed one over. A toast. Sip. Neither spoke for a while as they savored the smoke and peat and heather of the superb Scottish nectar.

  The Nigerian, Valentine Tsogo, lived in Hillbrow. He owned the top three floors of a thirty-story apartment block; seven bedrooms, two kitchens, a servant’s wing and a home cinema were merely some of the more notable aspects of the fantastically over-the-top residence. He also owned the rest of the block. The original service elevator had been converted into Valentine’s private car and took him directly from the underground parking to his double-vaulted entrance hall.

  Five years ago Valentine had moved from Lagos with his entire extended family of around thirty people. He had arrived in the country with lots of capital in the form of gold and diamonds but he had very little in the way of local connections. The move had not been through choice but rather through his abortive attempt to oust one of the major crime families in Nigeria. His failure had cost him three family members and more than four million dollars in lost cash. It had also cost him the right to continue living in the country of his birth.

  But since Valentine had arrived he and his family had done very well. Within months they had set up an office specializing in emailing out millions of different versions of the Nigerian 419 scam letter. This gist of which went;

  Dear Respected One,

  GREETINGS,

  Permit me to inform you of my desire of going into business relationship with you. I got your contact from the International web site directory. I prayed over it and selected your name among other names due to it's esteeming nature and the recommendations given to me as a reputable and trust worthy person I can do business with and by the recommendations I must not hesitate to confide in you for this simple and sincere business.

  I am Wumi Abdul; the only Daughter of late Mr and Mrs George Abdul. My father was a very wealthy cocoa merchant in Abidjan, the economic capital of Ivory Coast before he was poisoned to death by his business associates on one of their outing to discus on a business deal. When my mother died on the 21st October 1984, my father took me and my younger brother HASSAN special because we are motherless. Before the death of my father on 30th June 2002 in a private hospital here in Abidjan. He secretly called me on his bedside and told me that he has a sum of $12.500.000 (Twelve Million, five hundred thousand dollars) left in a suspense account in a local Bank here in Abidjan, that he used my name as his first Daughter for the next of kin in deposit of the fund.

  He also explained to me that it was because of this wealth and some huge amount of money his business associates supposed to balance his from the deal they had that he was poisoned by his business associates, that I should seek for a God fearing foreign partner in a country of my choice where I will transfer this money and use it for investment purpose, (such as real estate management). Unfortunately we have come upon a dire problem. Due to the corruption currently being experienced in our country we need a small sum of money to bribe the bank official to release the money. This sum would be $20 000 which must be transferred via Western Union to me. As well as this we would need the following.

  1) To provide a Bank account where the $12 500 000 would be transferred to.

  2) To serve as the guardian of this since I am a girl of 17 years.

  Moreover Sir, we are willing to offer you 15% of the sum as compensation for effort input after the successful transfer of this fund to your designate account overseas. please feel free to contact ,me via this email address xxxxxxxxxxx@yahoo.com

  Anticipating to hear from you soon.

  Thanks an
d God Bless.

  Miss Wumi Abdul

  There were a few variations on the theme but the basic script was the same. The bad grammar and punctuation were deliberate; after all, Valentine had graduated with a second-class degree in philosophy from Oxford and spoke English better than most English people. But the clunky wording gave the recipient a feeling of superiority. And that, in turn, led the mark to believe that they were the sophisticated party in the transaction.

  The actual mechanics of the scheme were very basic. Most people are not aware of the fact that for a mere five hundred US Dollars one can purchase a list of fifty million valid email addresses from an IT company based in Calcutta, India. Then one blasted off the emails via a Chinese based bullet-proof hosting center that stopped your ISP from knowing that you were sending out thousands of emails every few seconds.

  It never ceased to amaze him how gullible people were. And how greedy. It was impossible to con a truly honest person but it seemed that there were enough dodgy characters out there to make the 419 scam a great business. Sometimes they hit two or three a month. People would literally send them thousands of dollars. But usually one had to play the long con. Emails back and forth, personal details, even family photos. Lately, however, it was getting harder. It seemed that everyone in the world who had access to a computer had received a letter from Valentine or someone similar. In fact there were now large numbers of people out there who practiced 419 baiting. They would enter into communications with Valentine’s people and then string them along for as long as possible, wasting precious time and, quite frankly, eventually leaving you feeling like a bit of an asshole.

  So Valentine had decided to branch out. He had decided to expand his business. And this was why he had approached the man who now stood before him. Valentine was not taken in by the man’s veneer of suave sophistication. He had met men like this before. Dangerous men. Their desire to control governed their lives. Power was their drug of choice and they would exercise it whenever possible. And they would do so in an utterly ruthless way. Adi Amin, Robert Mugabe, BJ Vorster. Africa bred these sorts of men in abundance. They were men to be feared. But not necessarily respected. Except, perhaps, in the way that a rabid dog commands respect.

  ‘So, Valentine, how is our mutual partner doing?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, mister Zangwa.’

  ‘Please, my friend, call me, Texas.’

  Valentine nodded in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, Texas. As I said, slowly, slowly. He’s not comfortable with the situation yet. Not actually sure that he ever will be but he keeps prying eyes away from the location. He gets rid of the evidence. Does what we need him to do, so as long as your boys keep bringing the stock we’ll keep supplying the product.’

  ‘And in return? Are you taking care of him?’

  ‘Yes. Our side of the transaction is very simple. Money.’

  ‘Perhaps we could save some. Get him to carry out his side of the deal by simply…’ Texas held his hand out in front of his face and formed a fist.

  Valentine shook his head. ‘If we threatened this man it could escalate. He has many guns working under him. Professionals. The last thing that we want is a war.’

  ‘I am not afraid of war.’

  ‘Of course not, Texas. I merely advise prudence. In the scheme of things the payments are less costly than the alternatives.’

  Texas nodded agreement and then started to walk towards the door. The meeting was obviously over. They shook hands and one of the guards showed the Nigerian out.

  Texas sipped at the whisky. It had been yet another exceptional evening. A gross of two million and forty thousand Dollars. Capital outlay; eight thousand Dollars worth of alcohol and tobacco. A nett profit of two million and thirty two thousand dollars. A fair cut had to go to the Nigerian and their new partner but he would still be left with an extortionate amount of cash. He had discovered the true wealth of Africa. Over the last six months he had made almost four million Dollars. More than many multinational companies make in a year. He shook his head to himself. Personally he couldn’t understand these soft white men and their strange obsessions. But he was merely a businessman. Not a connoisseur of the goods that were being purveyed.

  He walked out through the open double doors onto the balcony that overlooked his park like grounds. The hedges and trees were artfully planted and pruned so as to hide all evidence of the high walls and electric fencing. The late night air was crisp and dry and smelt of Jacaranda and Jasmine. Far in the distance he heard the crackle of small arms fire. Nine millimeters. And then police sirens. The sound of Johannesburg at play. He smiled broadly to himself, God how he loved this country.

  He sensed more than heard his chief bodyguard walk into the room behind him. Silent on rubber soled shoes. A buffalo of a man that gave the impression of being almost as wide as he was tall. His dark suit was tailor made, as befit his position in the hierarchy, but his shoes were off-the-shelf. His weapon, however, was state of the art and customized to his exact requirements. A Desert Eagle .50 action express with a seven round magazine, a compensator and molded Pachmayr grips. Eleven inches of firearm that weighed in at over two kilograms fully loaded. In his meaty hands the gargantuan pistol looked normal sized.

  The bodyguard cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Ubawo, my father,’ he greeted respectfully. ‘It grows late. Soon it will be morning. I have set the guards and the house is secure apart from this room. You have an early start tomorrow and perhaps it is time to seek sleep.’

  The man in the velvet jacket smiled again. ‘Thank you, Dubula,’ he handed his almost empty glass to the huge man. ‘Put some more in this. Help yourself to some as well. And a cigar.’

  Dubula returned and handed back a half full glass of whisky. He did not partake of any himself, as the host had known he would not. He never drank. And, as far as he could tell, he never slept either. Or, at least, he had never seen him sleep. ‘So, my friend, we did very well tonight. In one night we make more than all of our other enterprises do for a whole month. What do you think of that?’

  Dubula said nothing. His eyes flicked constantly over his masters shoulder to the garden. Scanning. Protecting.

  ‘I wonder,’ continued Dubula’s master. ‘Is it time to specialize? To hone our operations down. The robberies, the hijacking, the commerce. These are all very labor-intensive enterprises. How many guns do we have working for us at the moment?’

  ‘It varies. Sixty six, maybe sixty seven.’

  ‘A lot of men. An army, some would say.’ He laughed again, loudly, his mood expansive. Ebullient. And why shouldn’t it be…he was two million dollars richer than he had been a mere twelve hours earlier. ‘A good day. A good, good day. Be well, my friend.’

  As he walked from the room he could feel Dubula’s eyes on him. Hooded. Dark. And fanatically loyal.

  Less than one-mile away Vusi spread his thin jacket over his sister’s sleeping form. He was thankful that it wasn’t raining. Even when the weather was warm, rain made life very unpleasant.

  He was worried about his little sister, Thandi. She had been coughing now for over three weeks. Not violent wracking coughs, simply persistent. Particularly when it rained. Vusi had found a sheet of thick cardboard that afternoon and he had lashed one side of it to the front of their shack with assorted pieces of string. If one pushed very carefully it would open and close. Like a real door. Thandi had clapped when he had finished and that had made him very proud. Because he was the man and the man was meant to do things like provide shelter. And collect food. For the last six months since their mother had died Vusi had provided for his sister. And protected her. They continued to stay in the cardboard and plywood lean-to in the Alexandra Township that they called home. An eight-foot square plot of bare earth squeezed between two other slightly more substantial shacks. A cardboard back wall, plywood roof and cardboard door. It kept out the scorching sun and some of the wind but very little of the rain. In winter, if they lit a small fire,
it stayed above freezing.

  Vusi did not know it but today was actually his birthday. Today Vusi was eleven years old. His sister, Thandi, had been born two years after him. She was still a child. But Vusi was a man.

  He dipped a tin mug into the water bucket that they kept in the corner of the lean-to. This mug, the plastic bucket, two tin plates, two spoons, a small aluminum cooking pot, an old paint tin fire bucket and the clothes that they wore were all that the two siblings owned. Apart from Vusi’s most prized possession; a six-inch long screwdriver, the tip of which had been sharpened to a needle sharp point. Self-protection. He had not used it yet but knew that, when the time came, he would do so without hesitation.

  Vusi put a block of wood into the fire tin, more for its meager light source than for its warmth. The dull orange glow gave a feeling of safety, however transient. He slept fitfully. Waking at every small sound, his yellow and silver screwdriver tight in his hand. Guarding. Protecting. Keeping his little sister safe.