Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  Chapter 19

  For the first time in his life Valentine was afraid. Truly, viscerally afraid. He had found Brian’s body in the Hillbrow studio. His head spread across the wall and ceiling. The air full of the rank metallic stink of death.

  And then the next day he had seen the newspapers. Every one of them carrying the same story. Someone had broken into doctor Jakob’s residence and mutilated him after, bizarrely, calling an ambulance and applying the necessary tourniquets needed to keep him alive after his appalling injuries. The reasons for the mutilation were obvious when the contents of a DVD that had been superglued to his forehead were viewed. The DVD showed the prominent surgeon to be a pedophile and a murderer and, from what the authorities were saying, it was easy to see that the police were not going to go out of their way to find the vigilante who had perpetrated the act.

  In fact there was already a rash of graffiti going up around the city, in six-foot high crimson letters; Matthew 18:8.

  Valentine, who had attended a church school in England, knew the verse well. “If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.” Already the newspapers were calling the vigilante, 18:8.

  Valentine wasn’t sure if the maimings were religiously driven but he was sure of one thing. He was sure that the doctor would have told 18:8 everything he knew. And that meant that he would be coming for him. Soon.

  He grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers. Hit dial. Waited.

  ‘Texas, it’s Valentine. Have you seen the papers? …Front page, the 18:8 killing … Well that’s not all. I went to the Hillbrow studio. Brian’s dead. He’s been shot in the head … Well, what should I do? … Okay. I’ll sit tight. I won’t leave the building until you give me the all clear … Thanks Texas.’ He disconnected and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  Texas put his cell back into his pocket, his face a picture of scorn.

  ‘Fucking coward,’ he said to himself. And then, ‘Dubula!’

  Manon had taken the news about the missing children as well as she could. And she had sympathized with Garrett when he told her that he knew not what to do next. He also told her how baffled he was about the phantom shooter.

  The nun sat on the edge of her bed. Hands crossed on her lap. Face pale as death. Her eyes blank. And Garrett remembered back to Sierra Leone when she had told him that she no longer had any tears left to cry. But as he studied her face it came to him that something else was wrong. It was difficult for him to judge because she covered her emotions well. And, although Garrett had known Manon for a long time he also hardly knew her at all. Eventually she looked up at the soldier. Her expression contrite but unashamed.

  ‘I know who the shooter is.’

  Garrett was careful to keep his face neutral, his voice calm.

  ‘Okay, talk to me.’

  ‘A few days back, just before you started going to question all of those gangsters about the children, His Most Reverend Eminence contacted me. He asked me all about you, everything that I knew.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘He asked me…commanded me not to. Of course I obeyed.’

  ‘You’re telling me now.’

  ‘I know. The next day he got back to me. He told me that he had assigned someone to watch over you. To protect you. Bishop Mandoluto.’

  There was a low whistle from the doorway and Garrett turned to see Petrus. The guard raised an eyebrow. ‘Mandoluto, hey?’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ admitted Garrett. ‘Can’t say that I saw anything special about him.’

  Petrus laughed. ‘Yeah well, some might say that you look pretty normal as well. At first impression. But this Mandoluto character. Mozambican. Portuguese colored. Some call him The Long Gun, others, mister Shabalala, mister Death. Can kill a man at one thousand yards with an elastic band, or so they say. But seriously, he’s probably the only guy around here that could shoot like what we’ve seen. Good man to have on your side. Very bad man to have running against you.’

  ‘How come you know so much about him?’

  ‘Eish, anyone who fought a war around here knows about The Long Gun. He’s a legend. He fought for RENAMO. Killed over one hundred government troops before he was out of his teens. Even today, you meet an ex-FRELIMO grunt and mention The Long Gun; guy will shit himself like an incontinent pensioner.’

  Manon frowned. ‘Petrus.’

  ‘Sorry, sister.’

  ‘So why does the big boss want me protected?’

  ‘He said that the church looks after its own. He said that you were sent by God to help the children. Not only now but before. He called you the left hand of the lord.’

  Petrus clapped Garrett on the shoulder.

  ‘Well done, Isosha, you’ve been promoted. And to think, I met you when you were still a normal mortal.’

  ‘Fuck off, Petrus.’

  Garrett was embarrassed. But he was also relieved. He was not a religious man but the way that he saw it; a blessing from the Almighty wouldn’t go amiss. That said, it was time to speak to the bishop. He took his cell out of his pocket, scrolled through the numbers and pressed call. It was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hello. Is that Bishop Mandoluto?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Garrett here. Remember me?’

  ‘Of course. How can I help?’

  ‘We need to talk. Soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why, mister Long Gun.’

  ‘I see. Where are you?’

  ‘Honeydew. The home.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Half an hour.’

  Garrett hung up.

  The soldier and the guard sat outside the front of the orphanage on plastic chairs, waiting for the bishop. The sun was on its way down. A massive red orb that dominated the darkling sky. As it often did in the Highveld, rain had poured down for the last twenty minutes and then stopped. Open, shut. It cleansed the dust from the air and filled the nostrils with the smell of ozone. The wet roofs and roads reflected the red of the sun and the dripping leaves on the trees shimmered in the same color. Christmas decorations. Or perhaps blood.

  Far away a dog barked incessantly. Obsessed with guarding its territory, its entire existence the eight hundred square foot of garden that it lived in and the family that fed him. And in return for their munificence he barked out his warning. Stay away. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  Petrus sharpened his assegai. Running a small whetstone along the steel until it looked like it was edged with a sliver of blue ice. Garrett simply sat. Waited.

  A black Audi A4 pulled into the parking area and Mandoluto stepped out. He wore a light gray linen suit, no tie, yellow shirt, black Chelsea boots. No shoulder holster. Garrett stood up to greet him. They shook hands and the soldier gestured towards a chair. Mandoluto sat, nodded to Petrus, took a slim leather cigarette case from an inside pocket. Flipped the lid. Offered. Dark hand rolled cheroots. Both Garrett and Petrus accepted and lit up. The area around them was quickly filled with deep blue fragrant smoke.

  Petrus spoke first. ‘Nice smoke.’

  The bishop nodded. Remained silent.

  ‘So,’ said Garrett. ‘Talk to me, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Are you a religious man?’ the bishop asked Garrett.

  ‘Not really. I mean, I went to a church school. I believe in a God but I don’t go to church. Weddings, funerals, that sort of thing, but otherwise not.’

  ‘You see, Garrett. In many ways the life of a truly religious man is very simple. When one puts one’s life in the hands of the Almighty one relinquishes certain responsibilities. I no longer have to decide for myself what is wrong and what is right, my church and my God have already decided that for me. In your case, His Most Reverend Eminence decided that you were the answer to certain prayers and thus he commanded me to do all that I could to protect you. This I have done and I will continue to do even though it causes me more pain than you will ever be able to conceive.’


  ‘So that’s it? Your boss says kill and you do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without question.’

  ‘Yes, without question or hesitation. For to go against the church is to go against God.’

  ‘And what now?’

  ‘Now? Whatever you decide. His Most Reverend Eminence told me to see you and tell you that I am yours to command. The children must be protected. Whatever is happening to them must stop.’

  ‘I see. And just how much do you know about what has been happening to the children?’

  Mandoluto shrugged. ‘Not much. His Most Reverend Eminence is convinced that they are being kidnapped, we have asked around, investigated, but so far, nothing.’

  So Garrett told the bishop exactly what had been happening. The kidnappings, the filming, the murders and the retribution. As he spoke to the holy man he could see the horror of the truth stripping away his veneer of civilization, eating through his armor of polite society. And by the end of the telling the man who sat opposite him was once again The Long Gun, mister Shabalala. The vestiges of his priesthood torn aside by the need to avenge the dreadful wrongs that Garrett had exposed him to.

  ‘Our next step is to find the Nigerian. I will talk to our people. There are over two million Catholics in the greater Gauteng area. We will find him. It won’t take long.’

  The bishop shook hands, got back into his car and left.

  The Long Gun was true to his word. Garrett had once again slept in Petrus’ room and, shortly after breakfast, his cell rang.

  ‘His name is Valentine Tsogo. He lives in a penthouse in Hillbrow. An apartment block called Glory Towers, Kotze Street. I’ll forward a picture of him to your phone.’

  It was still early morning and the roads were clogged with work-going traffic. Oil smoke filled the air and the taxis hooted at each other like flocks of huge migratory birds. Parp, parp. Touting for business.

  Garrett parked the car a block away from the given address and they walked in on foot, stopping at a street vendor to buy some more cigarettes and a pack of koeksusters, a mega-sweet fried pastry product that made Garrett’s jaw cramp when he chewed it. Petrus ate the rest of the packet with great relish. Licking the syrup from his fingers afterwards. They took up position diagonally opposite the building in a crumbling doorway of an old dry-cleaning shop. The place had been long boarded up and there were piles of old furniture, fridges and ragged car tires piled up around the entrance. A perfect urban hide. They sat comfortably in the hide all day, watching people going in and out of the building but no sign of Valentine Tsogo. Late afternoon Petrus went into the building and scouted around but with no luck. He reported to Garrett when he got back.

  ‘There are two entrances to the penthouse; one is the fire escape. Protected by a thick steel door, so it’s a no go. The other is via a private elevator from the parking garage. Also behind locked steel doors, CCTV and armed guards. He has his own generator in case the electricity goes out and, according to a young girl that I talked to, he hasn’t come out for a couple of days. He’s even getting his food delivered. I’d say that he’s gone into lockdown. A rat in his hole.’

  ‘Shit. What now?’

  ‘Not sure. If I were him and the left hand of the lord was looking for me, then I’d be in no hurry to come out.’

  ‘Petrus.’

  ‘Yes, Isosha.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Both of the men laughed.

  ‘But seriously,’ the Zulu continued. ‘He could stay there forever. What do we do? Sit on our asses waiting?’

  Garrett lit a cigarette. Smoked thoughtfully. ‘Do you reckon that the Nigerian is the head honcho?’

  ‘What? In charge of the whole snuff movie thing?’

  ‘Yep. What think you?’

  ‘Could be. I mean. I don’t know him but a lot of those Nigerians have proved to be pretty ruthless. Well organized. Yebo, it could be him.’

  ‘Okay, then this is the way that I see things. Let’s have a chat to the bishop. See what he can do. If we can take out Valentine at distance and he is the main man…then, job done. If he isn’t, well, we’ve still taken out one of the uglies and we’re no worse off.’

  ‘Sounds fair.’

  Garrett took out his cell phone.