Cashback

by Duncan James

  ***

  The man who answered the phone - a mobile - did not seem in the least surprised when Will rang.

  "Chap called Bowman said you might be on," he announced. "What do you want?"

  "Help in hijacking several million US dollars worth of diamonds," replied Will Bartlett.

  "Is that all?" joked the man. "Tell me what you have in mind."

  "Not on the phone, if you don't mind. Where are you?" asked Will.

  "Bulawayo," came the reply.

  "Me too," said Will. "Let's meet, if you're interested."

  "I'm interested," said the man. "Life's been a bit dull lately, and Bowman said you were OK."

  They met. The man - known only as 'Tiger' - was tall and thickset, but obviously very fit.

  "If I help with this," he announced, "it'll cost you ten percent of the value, for me and my team."

  "No it won't," replied Will. "The stones have been nicked in the first place, or as good as, and we intend returning their value to the rightful owners. There's no profit in it for me, but I don't mind paying you a reasonable fee for your trouble."

  "Tell me more about the job, and I'll decide," said Tiger, a man of few words.

  Will explained the background.

  "We don't know yet when or how they will be moved, so we may not have much time to organise things, but we think they will be flown from Harare to the border crossing near Plumtree, and then driven across Botswana into South Africa."

  "Sounds an odd way of doing things to me," opined Tiger. "Why not fly all the way?"

  "Because this is a form of smuggling, and it's easier to get across the border by road than by air - less paperwork in terms of manifestoes, customs forms and so on," replied Will. "Or so I'm told."

  "Sounds like they plan to use a small private aircraft," guessed Tiger. "Piper Cub or a Cessna or something."

  "Probably," agreed Will. "There's plenty of small operators at Charles Prince airfield, and they've been used from there before."

  Tiger thought for a minute or two.

  "OK, you're on," he announced. "I'll do a quick reconnaissance around Plumtree and the border area. Once we've got the stones, do you want me to take them all the way into South Africa?"

  "No, I can do that. Once you've got them, just hand them over. I'll be there."

  "Will the people doing this be armed?" asked Tiger.

  "Probably not," thought Will. "It won't be the Army or Police doing it. It will all be done quietly and privately and under cover, so nobody official will suspect what's going on. So far as they know, there will be no threat."

  "How wrong can you get!"

  "I don't want any shooting or bloodshed if it can be avoided," said Will.

  "Agreed," replied Tiger. "If they shoot first, we'll naturally look after ourselves, but otherwise no undue violence."

  "What's this going to cost," asked Will.

  "Thousand quid a day each, plus expenses, in cash, in UK pounds. I'll probably need two chums to help, no more."

  "Agreed," said Will.

  "Give me your mobile number, or do I contact you through Bowman?" asked Tiger.

  "No, you don't," replied Will. "He wants to be kept well out of this."

  "Can't say I blame him," replied Tiger. "I'll give you a bell when I've had a look round the border. One of my chaps will give the airfield the once over as well."

  "At Plumtree?" asked Will.

  "No. Charles Prince airfield," replied Tiger. "Small field north-west of Harare. Used to be a Rhodesian Air Force training base until 1973, and been general aviation ever since. Named after an old RAF man, who stayed on after the war and ended up as airport manager."

  "I remember my father flying from there once or twice - hired a plane to fly over the farm for a close look," said Will.

  "That's the sort of thing they do there - or used to. Not many farmers and even less aviation fuel these day. But I'll be in touch tomorrow, and if you get any more int. in the meantime about his little op., ring me soonest."

  And off he went. All Will had was Tiger's phone number - no real name, no contact address, nothing. But if Group Captain Bowman recommended him, he should be all right.

  Will hoped for the best.?

  19. THE HIJACKING?

  Kipling Bangura was not a happy man. Indeed, he had not been a happy man for many months. Business was bad. The country was so hard up it could not afford to import much fuel, even for the airport, and he certainly wasn't able to afford to buy any for his pump. Not that his customers could afford to buy any either, if he had any. There was still a little in his tank, but he hadn't sold so much as a gallon for - well, he couldn't remember how long ago it was.

  He had, though, used his welding torch a bit recently, although not to mend things like he used. The fact was, there was nothing much to mend any more. There were all sorts of vehicles, - cars, vans and lorries, even busses, abandoned at the side of the road, wherever you went. Left where they had stopped, mostly because they had run out of petrol, but some because they had broken down and the owner had no money for repairs.

  So Kipling Bangura had been given some of these old wrecks, and had used them for spares. He even had a spare engine for his treasured van, in the garden at the back, as well as all sorts of other very useful things. His spare parts were now almost his only source of income. Whereas in the good old days, he had frequently travelled across the border into Botswana to buy spare parts for his friends and neighbours and their cars and farm machines, he now took spare parts across the border to sell them. It just about earned him enough money to buy simple food to keep himself alive, and of course his friends at the border post, on both sides, knew him well enough after all this time to share a pot of green tea with him every now and then. And if he was really lucky, and he was coming home later than usual, they would even give him a plate of something from their supper pot on the stove, while they sat and chatted.

  Sometimes, he would try to repay them by taking them a packet of tobacco from the store in Plumtree, but it wasn't often that he could afford that. He was sure they understood. They certainly all knew how he had needed to change his way of life, and that he now exported spares to scratch together something of a living. He never had an export licence for them, or even really knew whether one was necessary, and they never looked into his van to see what he had this time. He just told them, and that was good enough.

  At first, he couldn't believe it when young master Will Bartlett turned up at his garage one day.

  "I've brought you a few things, Mr. Bangura," said Will. "I thought they might be a bit of a treat for you."

  He opened the plastic bag, and both men peered inside.

  "Here's a nice fat little chicken for your pot," said Will proudly, "and some fresh mangoes because I remember you were always fond of those, and they are so expensive these days."

  It was like Christmas for Kipling Bangura. These were rare luxuries, indeed.

  After a time, Mr. Bangura said, "I suppose you've come for the old Volvo."

  "I shall be needing it, actually, if it still goes," said Will Bartlett, "but I also have business to talk to you about."

  "The Volvo still goes," said Kipling proudly. "I promised your father that I would keep it in good order, so it still has petrol in the tank and from time to time I charge up the battery and start the engine just to make sure."

  "That's very good of you," said Will.

  "Of course," said Bangura sadly, "it doesn't look as smart as it once did. I have to keep it in the garden behind the workshop, and the weather has not been kind to the paintwork, I'm afraid, in spite of the tarpaulin."

  "Never mind what it looks like," said Will. "So long as it still goes. Do you think it would make the journey into South Africa?"

  "I think it would, yes," replied Mr. Bangura. "But you must drive it carefully, and not try to go too fast, especially over some of the bad roads. It is an old car, after all, and all old things need to be treated with care and attention."
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  "I shall take care of it," promised Will Bartlett. "And what about your van? How does that go these days?"

  "It works well, still," said Bangura proudly. "I take care of it, and now even have a spare engine for it, which is in the garden behind the garage. Let me show you."

  They went behind the old building, with its sign on two pieces of wood.

  "I see Mr. Chanama has not done a new sign for you," noticed Will.

  "My friend Patrick Chanama has still not found a new piece of wood long enough," replied Kipling Bangura. "And if he had," he sighed, "I should not have been able to pay him for a new sign, much as he needs the money that it would bring him. We are all poor these days."

  What should have been a garden at the back of Mr. Bangura's combined home and garage and workshop, was littered with spare parts of engines and old chassis, with rusty oil drums almost hidden in the bush which had overgrown most of the land. There was some evidence that Bangura had tried to carve out a small plot to grow himself some food, but there was no evidence of any great success. Will hoped there were no snakes in the long grass and scrub - he didn't like snakes. There were often short, brown ones about, and he remembered throwing stones at them when he was a boy, but you could also come across black mambas here and there, and they were poisonous.

  Mr. Bangura pointed. "There is your old Volvo. It will start, and you can drive it out quite easily onto the road from there. And here," he pointed to a different spot, "is the spare engine for my van. I am sure that it, too, will work if ever I need to fit it."

  They went back into the house, and into the one room that was capable of being called a living room.

  "How is your father?" enquired Bangura.

  "He is well, thank you Mr. Bangura," replied Will. "He particularly wanted me to call on you, to discuss the business which I mentioned earlier. My father has recently been able to buy a new farm, growing grapes for a large winery owned by a friend of his," explained Will Bartlett.

  "It was always a pleasure to do business with your father," said Mr. Bangura. "But I have heard that your old farm has recently been burnt down."

  "I have heard that, too," replied Will. "It is all very sad, especially for old Mr. Bartlett, whose family owned and ran the farm for so many years."

  "The whole country is in a sad way now," said Bangura. "Many of us are finding it hard still to live here, and yet we have no money to leave."

  "That is what I wanted to talk to you about, as a matter of fact," said Will. "My father has a business proposition to put to you, and has asked me to discus it with you. Since he has his own farm now in a really wonderful part of South Africa, he has needed to buy all his own farm machinery again. Much of it is second hand, although in good condition, but he needs someone who is a good engineer, like you, to look after it for him. He wants me to ask you if you would possibly consider coming to the new farm to work for him, and probably for many other farmers as well, as the nearest workshop is many miles away. He can offer you good accommodation with a workshop attached, and a regular wage if you were to join us there. I said 'us', as I shall be helping him to run the farm, and young Bwonqa Mbele will eventually become farm manager, as his father was at the old farm"

  Kipling Bangura could hardly believe his ears.

  "Please tell me all that again," he asked. "To make sure I really understand what it is you are asking me to do."

  Will went over the offer again, and showed Mr. Bangura some photographs of the farm, and the outbuilding which would be converted into his combined home and workshop. Mr. Bangura took the photos, and peered at them through misty eyes.

  "And that would be mine?" he asked, pointing at the outbuilding.

  Will nodded. "If you should think of accepting, it would be nice if you could bring your van, and the spare engine for it, and any other things you wanted," said Will. "My father says that if, after you have seen the place you eventually decided that you wanted to come back here after all, he would not mind, although of course he hopes you would want to stay."

  Bangura looked again at the photos.

  "I would have my own workshop?" he asked.

  Will nodded.

  "I shall bring my welding torch," he said, almost to himself. "And the spare engine for my van."

  "And my own house? Part of the workshop, here?" he pointed.

  "Yes," said Will.

  "And I will be paid?" he asked. "Regular money for food?"

  "Of course," replied Will.

  "Will there be enough work for me, do you think?"

  "Plenty," Will reassured him. "Other farmers nearby will be pleased to use your workshop and your skills, and to pay you for the work you do. There is no other workshop for many miles."

  "But how would I get there?" he pleaded. "I have no money for petrol, or money for food on the journey. It will take me some days in my van, driving carefully."

  "I will pay you for all that," Will assured him. "I have the money now, if you agree."

  "I could give this place to my nephew, Kboi. He has looked after it for me sometimes when I have been away, and he has no work at the moment. He can have this." Kipling Bangura looked about him sadly.

  "Let me make some tea," he offered Will. "Then you can tell me when I should leave."

  "You mean you really would like to come south to work for my father?" asked Will.

  "Of course." Bangura looked about him again. "There is nothing here. No work, no money, little food, and probably no future. They tell me that people are holding demonstrations and having marches. That means trouble."

  Kipling Bangura absent-mindedly put a lighted match to the small stove he had turned on moments earlier to make the tea. There was a small explosion as the gas ignited, but nothing was damaged. The two men laughed.

  "You must do better than that on my father's farm," joked Will, and they settled down to discuss the details.

  "I could leave tomorrow, if you like," said Bangura, almost eager now to be on his way.

  "A few days, perhaps. I will let you know, but be ready soon," Will said. "There is something I shall want you to take with you, if you would, but first I will help you put your spare engine into the back of your van."

  When Will Bartlett had gone, Kipling Bangura sat for a bit longer in his living room, looking time and again at the photographs that Will had left him. A new house, a new workshop, and new life in a new country. He wondered whether he really should, at his age as well. But there was nothing here for him any more. He had read that several million people had already left the country to try their luck somewhere else. And if that good man Mr. James Bartlett and his kind and thoughtful lady Missy Beatrice could do it, then so could he. And he would be working for them, at their new farm. Really, what could be better? He would go - and the sooner he went, the less time he would have to change his mind. No point in hanging about any longer in case something turned up, because nothing ever had. And Master Will had said that if he didn't like it, he could always come back. He looked for the umpteenth time at the pictures. Somehow, he couldn't imagine that he would ever come back, once he left.

  He was almost ready to go already. He had nothing to pack, worth talking about. He would throw a few of his best and most useful tools into the back of the van, with his welding torch and as many spares as he could cram in. You never knew when spares would come in useful. And he had money for the trip, too, which Master Will had given him. He had said they would travel together, in convoy. That would be good, and was sensible. If anything should go wrong with the old Volvo during the trip, he, Kipling Bangura, would be there to apply his engineering skills and welding torch to fix the problem. Very sensible.

  He counted the money he had been given. He was sure he would never need all that, just for petrol and a bed every night and a bit of food now and then. The thought of food made him feel hungry, as he often did these days, to be honest. He suddenly realized that, for once, he could actually afford a good meal. He decided to splash out a few dollars - why no
t? Since he would probably not be around for much longer, he could pay one last, farewell visit, to Madam Posseh's place. It was always very good, and not expensive, although it was a year or so since he had been. He would go in the van, and if she was still there, he would eat there.

  It was not far from his workshop, but the road started to get steeper and rougher as he drove on, passed several abandoned vehicles left at the roadside. Eventually, at the next bend, the sign for Madame Posseh's greeted him, pointing up a dirt track. He had passed it many times before he had eventually ventured down the track for the first time all those years ago, wondering exactly what type of establishment it was. But even in those days, Madame Posseh's turned out to be something of a wonderful oasis on the outskirts of Chasimu.

  After passing a dump for completely destroyed cars, which Kipling had raided many times for valuable spare parts, and on passed various small shacks selling everything from bread to hurricane lamps, the signs took him further through the suburb of rambling buildings, where he had to take care to avoid chickens and children and scabby dogs. Eventually he reached a large wrought iron gate, which he had once mended with his welding torch, and behind the gate was Madame Posseh, waiting to greet all her customers with an enormous smile, and discuss with them the best offers on the menu. Kipling parked his van and walked over to Madame Posseh, who soon recognised him, although she thought he had lost a lot of weight.

  She ushered him into the small restaurant, with its clean table linen. He remembered that the interior walls were covered with framed family photographs from the past century. She fussed around Mr. Bangura like an old hen, attention he was quite unused to, especially from a lady, and he explained that he was shortly to go south, probably for a long time, and that he thought he would treat himself to a good meal before he left. She promised him that he would leave with a full belly, having dined on the best food in town, as she called the village, and he recalled the last meal he had eaten there, all that time ago.

  "I can prepare the same for you again, if that is what you would like," she declared.

  For old time's sake, he decided that was what he would like, although quite where she got the prawns from in these hard times, he could not imagine. But both the prawns and the steak were excellent, and Madame Posseh insisted that he should have a sweet 'on the house', at no cost at all. Kipling Bangura chose his favourite, mango, and a pot of green tea to wash it down. Altogether, a very decent meal, and certainly the best he had eaten for months and months. Madame Posseh hoped he had enjoyed his meal, gave him a receipt - which of course he needed! - wished him a good journey and kissed him gently on his right cheek. Nobody had done that for a long time, either.