Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  His lawyer arrived for a meeting and requested a copy of Okito’s identity card. Seeing as Sara might be delayed at the doctor’s for longer, he took it out of his wallet and crossed over to the photocopier. Someone had left it switched on. Sara always turned the machine off when she wasn’t using it, to save the mechanism from power surges. Feeling uneasy he lifted the lid to place his card on the screen.

  There was a document stuck to the underside by static. He peeled it off, his heart rate increasing. It was a bank statement that came from the same year as the machinery orders, and several of the entries were highlighted in yellow. What the fuck was going on?

  He sat in Sara’s chair and read the entries which she selected. They were all transfers from the head office and subsequent deposits into his personal account. Large amounts of money that he appropriated with the cooperation of Dirk and Philippe, who both received a cut from every payment.

  A cold chill rose up his spine. He staggered to his feet and over to his desk where he picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Dirk, it’s Charlie. You’d better sit down.’

  ***

  Morné spotted Dirk out on the balcony of his office. He had the air of someone who was deciding whether to jump or not. Morné crossed the floor dragging his bad leg behind him and stepped out onto the small outside area, affecting a relaxed air.

  ‘There you are,’ he said.

  Dirk spun around. He wore a haunted look on his face. Around him, a small platoon of cigarette butts held the ground. He swallowed.

  ‘Oh, you gave me a start,’ he said.

  ‘Everything all right?’ said Morné, knowing it wasn’t, but unwilling to pry.

  ‘Yes, fine. Just distracted.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Do? No, nothing.’

  ‘You should go home for the day. It’s so quiet, you won’t miss anything.’

  ‘Okay.’

  A shocking reaction. Dirk would never countenance such a suggestion under normal circumstances. He was as pale as the wall.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes. Quite sure.’

  ‘See you tomorrow then.’

  What the hell was going on?

  ***

  Dirk blew the cigarette smoke out of the car window as he surveyed the massive hole in the landscape that had been excavated at the Big Deep Mine. Sheer cliffs remained where the original banking had long fallen into the bottom. The bottomless hole resonated with him as he measured the depth of his despair. He reviewed his conversation with Charlie Okito, looking for an out, but finding none.

  ‘We’re screwed. Someone’s made copies of the bank transfers,’ said Charlie without preamble.

  Dirk’s legs folded under him and he slumped into his chair.

  ‘What transfers?’

  ‘Don’t play the coy virgin with me, Goosen. You know.’

  ‘How the fuck did they find out about?’ said Dirk.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it has something to do with that busybody you hired to work at Masaibu.’

  ‘Sam? But how on earth did she discover the truth? There’s no evidence on site. You have all the accounts in Goro.’

  ‘What about the accounts in Johannesburg?’

  Dirk’s stomach lurched as he remembered Sam’s trip to accounts. He visited the department the next day on a pretext and asked the mousey Miss Magana what Sam was doing there. She told him that Sam was confirming her bank details and turned her back on him. He should have known. Women in solidarity together were more dangerous than a platoon of loaded rifles.

  ‘Miss Magana rules that department with a rod of iron. There is no way Sam could have looked for the information without express permission from me, and I didn’t give it.’

  ‘Did Sam ask questions about the accounts?’

  No, she was too busy answering questions about her supposed racism. Your bright idea if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Well, my new secretary is the fly in the ointment. She has disappeared with the evidence. Whoever arranged the theft will turn us in.’

  ‘What about blackmail?’

  ‘I doubt it. Too complicated with so many implicated. It’s time to leave, Dirk. Take your money out in cash and run away somewhere nice without an extradition treaty. I’m leaving tomorrow. It’s been fun.’

  Click. The line went dead. Dirk hung up the phone and walked out to the balcony for a smoke where Morné prevented him from taking the quick way down. There was no way out. All his money had gone on two expensive divorces and sending his children to university in London. There was nothing left. Anyway, he had nowhere to go.

  He drove to the Big Deep where he started his career as a teenager on holiday work. It always soothed him. Now he would rest here. He flicked his cigarette out onto the ground, took a final swig of whiskey from his flask, and drove his car straight at the wooden safety fence along the cliff.

  ***

  The next morning, Miriam knocked on Morné’s door.

  ‘Have you heard from Dirk? I tried ringing him at home but he has switched off his phone,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Have you looked on his desk? Maybe he left you a note.’

  Miriam bustled over to Dirk’s office. There was a whiskey bottle on the desk and stains where he had spilt some trying to decant it into his flask. She rolled her eyes to heaven and tutted. Then she saw the letter.

  Chapter XXIX

  Joseph Kaba’s vehicle arrived at the mayor’s office in Masaibu, its tires screeching with the effort of keeping the car on the road, scattering a flock of chickens who were pecking at the body of a mouse in the gutter. A smell of burning rubber filled the air and a large welt was left in the mud beside the building.

  Passers-by jumped back in alarm as the car came to a halt in the middle of the road, but no-one dared complain when the occupant got out, stepping over the puddles with exaggerated care for his crocodile boots. Kaba swore as he miscalculated and sank into the mud. He had a reputation for comic book violence that was well deserved and triggering him was all too easy. They gave the vehicle and its owner a wide berth.

  Kaba stalked into the office building without the customary greetings and approached the secretary who cowered behind her desk.

  ‘Where’s the mayor?’ he said.

  ‘He’s in his office,’ she said, her eyes on stalks, ‘but he has a visitor.’

  ‘So?’ said Kaba. ‘Tell him, I’m here.’

  He saw her hesitate.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll tell him,’ he said.

  The secretary lifted a hand in feeble protest but Kaba had gone, striding across the office leaving a trail of mud. He threw open the door and burst in to find the mayor having a coffee with a local shopkeeper who was a member of the stakeholder committee.

  ‘Good morning, general, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?’ said the mayor, his voice neutral.

  The shopkeeper stood up. He edged around Joseph Kaba and towards the door. Kaba turned around and shoved him through the opening, slamming the door behind him, leaning against it and breathing with a vicious intensity. His nostrils flared, and he glared at the mayor.

  Victor Samba held his gaze but shrank back in his seat as Kaba approached the desk and shoved his face across it.

  ‘This is your fault,’ he said, poking his finger into Victor’s chest. ‘You did this.’

  Victor reached up and removed the digit with a calmness he did not feel. ‘I don’t understand what you are talking about,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ said Kaba.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘We returned to the forest for the rest of the herd yesterday and the rangers ambushed us.’

  ‘How did they know where you were? Was it the pygmies?’ said the mayor.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They have been taken on to guard the forest and tell the rangers if any poaching is g
oing on.’

  ‘Fucking pygmies? Who organised that?’ said Kaba.

  ‘WCO got together with Consaf.’

  ‘It’s that bloody woman again. It’s time we got rid of Ms Harris.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that? Charlie Okito tried, but it’s not that easy,’ said the mayor.

  ‘He’s an idiot. There is the only way to go. We’ll take the camp.’

  ‘You can’t kill local people. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘You were happy to take my money before.’

  ‘Elephants are not people.’

  ‘So, get them out of there. You have until dawn, but on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Have someone disable the cars. I don’t want her getting away. I have plans for the bitch.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Kaba. We are not at war now. You won’t get away with it.’

  ‘Don’t you dare interfere or you’ll disappear too. I’m going to enjoy this.’

  Kaba rubbed his balls in anticipation making the mayor queasy.

  ‘Get out of my office,’ he said, quaking with anger.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. No-one will know I involved you. I won’t squeal,’ said Kaba, sneering.

  ‘Out.’

  ***

  Victor Samba sat alone on his balcony. A large glass of whiskey, with ice cubes as insubstantial as ghosts, rested on the table in front of him. Several small flies were struggling to get to the safety of the ice cubes like passengers from the Titanic. He stuck a match into the liquid and scooped them out, flicking it out over the balcony surround and down into the yard below.

  Mbala appeared at his side and put her hand on his. He pulled his hand away as if stung but she was not intimidated.

  ‘You must do something,’ she said. ‘Kaba will not stop at murder. You know what they do to women that they capture.’

  Victor frowned and shook his head.

  ‘It’s none of your business, woman.’

  Mbala took a deep breath and let it all out before speaking in a tone he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’m not one of your women.’

  Victor’s eyes widened.

  ‘I didn’t say…’ he stuttered.

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid? No, don’t answer that. You bought me, so I’m a servant. What right have I to an opinion?’ said Mbala.

  She stood up and faced him, her countenance dark with fury. Victor did not answer.

  ‘The daughter of Chief Fantu is not one of your filthy whores. I’ve a job now and my own money. I don’t need you anymore.’

  Victor’s mouth had fallen open so wide she could see his tonsils.

  ‘You think I didn’t hear you talking to Joseph Kaba? You hypocrite. Sam has been good to us,’ she said.

  ‘Good? How did you work that out?’ Victor stood up and knocked his drink flying. ‘She’s ruined me. Where do you think I got all my money before she turned up?’

  ‘The state pays you plenty,’ said Mbala.

  ‘You don’t know everything. They haven’t paid me this year. Without the cuts of the hospital money and the kickbacks from Charlie Okito and Joseph Kaba, we would be in the gutter.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing. Are you so naïve?’

  Mbala was silent, her face working in the shadows.

  ‘So, you’ll let her die? You’re a monster,’ she said.

  She swept past him as he reached out to grab her, falling headlong on the boards as he stuck out a foot. He leant over her.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said.

  ***

  It was late, and the camp deserted, by the time Sam and the security men could get together to discuss the previous day’s happenings. Sam didn’t drink much but the air of celebration was catching and she felt like letting her hair down for a change. She had a couple of beers before making herself a big mug of tea.

  ‘That’s not a drink,’ said Hans.

  ‘Caffeine is a drug,’ said Sam.

  Hans clinked his bottle of beer against Sam’s cup of tea, the steam rising off it in the cool evening air. Jacques reached over to do the same but missed. The air of satisfaction in the office of the security house was palpable. Hans lay back in his recliner, the laces on his army boots loose in the eyelets, and emitted a long sigh of relief.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d live to see the day,’ he said. ‘Rangers working with pygmies, it’s extraordinary.’

  ‘Jean Delacroix should get the credit. He’s the one who laid down the law,’ said Jacques.

  ‘And threatened to withhold their salaries,’ said Sam. ‘Do you think the poachers will give up now?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s obvious that Joseph Kaba is behind this. He’s not a man to take defeat lying down.’

  ‘We need to be vigilant,’ said Jacques.

  There was a knock on the door. Mbala Samba staggered in, her face puffy and her eye black and swollen. Sam gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. Hans leapt to his feet and caught Mbala as she fell to the floor, lifting her onto the camp bed in the corner of the office.

  While Jacques ran to the kitchen to get some ice, Sam knelt beside the bed and stroked Mbala’s hair. Blood and dirt matted the hair where her weave had been pulled off.

  ‘What happened?’ said Sam. ‘Who did this to you?’

  But Mbala was mute, staring up at the ceiling to avoid Sam’s eyes.

  Jacques arrived back with the ice wrapped in a clean tea towel which he applied to the bridge of Mbala’s nose. She winced, and cried out, but did not remove it. The minutes passed as only the rasping sound of her breathing broke the shocked silence in the room.

  She tried to raise her head. Jacques put a cushion under it, and then a second one. Sam tried again. ‘Who hit you?’

  Mbala’s jaw jerked into life. Her arms flailed about as she tried to sit up.

  ‘Rebels,’ she said. ‘They’ll attack at dawn. They are coming to kill you.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ said Hans.

  ‘I heard Victor talking to Joseph Kaba.’

  ‘Did Kaba do this to you?’ said Jacques.

  ‘No, it was my husband. He was angry with me. It does not matter.’

  Despite the urge to dispute this, Sam held her tongue. Now was not the time for lectures.

  ‘We must get away from Masaibu before they arrived. We can’t defend ourselves against machine guns,’ said Hans. ‘Stay here with Mbala and we’ll get the cars ready.’

  The two men disappeared into the night leaving Sam shaken. She resisted the temptation to look out of the window but no sound broke the silence outside. Instead she made tea for Mbala with three spoons of sugar for shock. How could her husband do this to her? Victor never showed Sam a vicious streak, on the contrary, he had been pro-active despite his misgivings about her ideas.

  Time passed with glacial slowness. Still the men did not return. Mbala had fallen into a deep sleep and Sam covered her with an old blanket before going to stand in the window of the office peering into the darkness for moon shadows.

  Just when panic was grabbing hold of her, they returned. Both men were sweating and panting. Hans placed his hands on the table and took a couple of deep breaths.

  ‘It’s not good news,’ he said.

  Her heart tightened in her chest but she asked, anyway.

  ‘Where are the cars?’

  ‘Someone has slashed the tires and removed the spark plugs from all the vehicles,’ said Jacques.

  ‘Sabotage? Who would do such a thing? Have you asked the men?’ said Sam.

  ‘All the locals have left. Someone must have warned them,’ said Hans.

  ‘So, who’s still here?’

  ‘Frik, Alain, Bruno, Ngoma, Dr Ntuli, and us. I told them to stay in their houses and lock the doors,’ said Jacques.

  ‘Can we smuggle Mbala out?’ asked Sam.

  �
�The guards have deserted too. Kaba’s men are at the gates,’ said Hans.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’

  ‘Their boss,’ said Jacques.

  ‘What can we do?’

  Hans pulled up a chair and took Sam by the hands.

  ‘Nothing. Sticks are no protection against machine guns,’ he said.

  ‘So, we will die?’ she said to Jacques who looked away.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Hans with a shrug. ‘Would you like me to shoot you?’

  ‘What?’ Sam stood up and backed away, knocking the chair over. ‘Are you crazy? Why would I want you…’?

  But the penny had dropped. Rebel soldiers wouldn’t miss the opportunity to rape a white woman. They had nothing to lose. And she had stopped them killing the elephants and getting their money. They were waiting for Kaba so he could have first dibs but after that…

  ‘Goddamn elephants. I knew they were trouble,’ she said.

  ‘Only as a last resort,’ said Hans.

  ‘The police are supposed to protect us,’ said Jacques. ‘There’s still time for them to come.’

  A faint hope, and not one she would espouse.

  ‘Okay, but only if you have to. And don’t let me see the gun,’ said Sam. Fuck. She swallowed a sob.

  Chapter XXX

  Victor woke before dawn sprawled on the floor of his bedroom. His hangover was so severe he wanted to die. He rolled onto his back and thanked God it was still dark, and he wouldn’t have to face the sunlight yet. He lurched to his feet and noticed the bed had not been slept in. Mbala. A hot flush of shame worsened the evil pain in his head. Where was she?

  He searched the house with his heart hammering in his chest. She was right. He was a monster. What if he had killed her? Fear gripped him as he found a piece of her hair weave near the front door, still sticky with blood. But she was nowhere to be found. Leaving the house, he approached the shed where the servant boy lived and shook him awake.

  ‘Where is she? Where is Mama Mbala?’

  The boy’s eyes were wide with terror. Victor raised his hand to strike him and then lowered it again. It would be like striking a puppy.