by Mike Nicol
Tami returned, plonked the mug of coffee before Oosthuizen.
‘That was quick.’ He spooned in two sugars.
‘That’s what it means,’ said Tami, ‘instant.’
Magnus Oosthuizen eyed her. Mace could hear his thoughts: watch it, sisi, I’ll have your black arse. In the end he sneered. ‘Very funny.’
Mace intervened, touched her arm. ‘Mr Oosthuizen has a contract to develop the weapons system for our new frigates.’
Tami toasted with her mug. ‘Oh wow!’
Mace thought, bloody hell, Tami. Waited for Oosthuizen to rise to the sarcasm.
He didn’t. He waved his teaspoon. ‘No, no, not a contract. I have tendered. On price Magtech is the best. On technical specifications Magtech is the best. On effectiveness Magtech is the best. We are ahead of the game, Mr Bishop. But in this business ahead is not enough. As you know.’ He carefully sipped at his instant coffee. ‘In this business you have to watch out. You might be the best man but others can drop you in the shit. Pardon my French. Someone else puts in the right bribes and you are finished. Might as well blow your brains out for all the work you did. Understand me?’
‘No,’ said Mace.
‘No what?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
Oosthuizen looked at him. ‘Come, Mr Bishop, you’re not thinking.’
‘Think for me. Aloud.’
‘Alright. I have the best price, the best system. The men in government want it. The Europeans have a system that is more expensive with some technical drawbacks. They also have money for bribes. The men in government want the bribes.’
‘You know that? For a fact?’
‘Ah come, Mr Bishop. I don’t have to answer that.’ He finished his coffee, went on. ‘For me this is a dangerous situation. I have a German scientist, Max Roland. He is the man who made my system. In his head is the one small trigger that makes my system work. You can steal my system but if you do not get the small trigger from Max Roland you have nothing.’
Oosthuizen unleashed one of his silences.
Mace would’ve let it ride, Tami didn’t.
‘Bit stupid, isn’t it? He could have a stroke, a heart attack, get run over by that bus they always talk about.’
Oosthuizen looked at her. Distaste in the purse of his mouth.
‘True.’
‘What then?’
‘Sometimes there is no insurance.’
‘You bet on his staying alive?’
‘I do.’
Tami snorted.
‘I have no option, Ms Mogale. This is a high-stakes business. Recorded information can be stolen.’ Hissing out the Ms, riding the three syllables of her name.
‘People can be tortured.’
‘Admittedly.’ He turned to Mace. ‘This is why I have come to you. I need to bring my colleague here. I need to keep him secure while he completes the system.’
Mace stared into his empty coffee mug. A brown stain at the bottom glistening. The future. How exciting! Given what’d happened to the last German he’d babysat. Whacked on the highway coming into the city by a hitman with more luck than savvy. This one’d be a hot target for both the local and the European bounty hunters. Could a proposition be more tantalising? At a time when you’ve got a partner shot up. A client kidnapped. That client’s husband sporting a strange attitude. He was about to say, thank you, Mr Oosthuizen, but no thank you.
When Magnus Oosthuizen said, ‘Dollars. US. Cash or off-shore.’ Then laid out a payment scheme: so much up front, so much on collection of his colleague, so much for safe delivery, so much per day until the completion of the project.
‘In other words when the government signs. Between now and then could be a lot of money for you, Mr Bishop.’
No kidding.
Mace said, ‘Who knows where he is?’
‘No one. Not even me, exactly. I know the country and the city, that’s all.’
Which was good. ‘So how do we do this?’
‘I will make the arrangements. There are planes every day. There is a flight tomorrow.’
Mace spluttered. ‘You’ve got to be joking! We’re talking out of the country?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then it’s too soon. I can’t do it that soon.’
Oosthuizen laced his fingers. ‘We all say that, Mr Bishop. But as the English say, when push comes to shove we manage miracles.’
Mace thought, given the build-up, undoubtedly had to be good money. Money they needed. But no ways he could take a flight out tomorrow. Thursday, maybe, with a shove. But tomorrow not a chance.
‘Who is this man?’ said Mace.
‘My colleague,’ said Oosthuizen, ‘you must understand is a scientist. A brilliant man. For ten years he has been living in our country. A few months ago he went home to Germany, a town called Frankfurt in the east, to fix his mother’s affairs. His mother was dying. Because our project is almost finished why not take time off? I said, Max, go. With the internet we don’t have to be in the same city. He goes off. We are in touch all the time. There are no problems. Nobody in the shadows. I am talking to the government men, they are happy, I am happy. What we are doing is just another job. No cloaks and daggers. His mother takes a long time to die. Two months. I can hear sometimes Max is frustrated. He can see no point to his mother’s life any more. Why doesn’t she die? Instead of sitting in a chair all day staring at television. She is ill. Cancer. She has twenty-four-hour nursing care. She tells him she wants to die. But for two months she doesn’t. Then he phones me to say at last she is gone. I offer condolences. No, Magnus, he says, I am relieved. I am even pleased. I’m not sad. I’m smiling. For two months I thought my life had stopped. Suddenly it is over. I can move on. Today I feel free.’
‘He has no other family. Wife? Children?’
‘Never married. Plenty of women but no woman. My colleague you must understand is a little different. Some would call him selfish. Personally, I believe he may have helped his mother on. This is a harsh thing to say but I believe it. Max would do that. How do they say it in American: when you come down to the wire. When you come down to the wire, Max is hard core. You understand the meaning of hard core?’
Tami shook her head. ‘Sounds buggered up.’
‘What happened?’ said Mace. ‘Afterwards.’
‘Two things.’ Oosthuizen tapped his file. ‘Two weeks ago two burglaries, one here in my premises. The other over there in Germany.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘My factory and Max’s mother’s apartment. There were a couple of days in between them but we’re not talking about a coincidence. Both times nothing was stolen except probably data off the computer. All neat and tidy.’
‘Anything serious?’
‘Fortunately not.’
‘Which was first?’
‘The one in my factory. Another thing.’ Oosthuizen stopped. Tweezered up a biscuit. Bit into it. ‘Damn nice’ – spraying crumbs onto the table. He swept them off with his hand. Finished the biscuit while Mace and Tami watched his chewing, a small muscle in his jaw working like a hamster. Mace thinking how unattractive it was watching someone eat.
‘A few days before the burglaries I got a call from Max to tell me he thought he was being followed. Firstly by people in a car on the street and then by a jogger early in the morning. Max goes jogging first thing. He runs marathons. Wherever they organise marathons Max goes to run them. New York, Sydney, London, Tokyo, Timbuktu, if they could organise one. Now he’s got company on his morning run. I ask him how he can tell because there’re people jogging all day and night. He says, he knows. This is a lady jogger who keeps her distance. But three mornings in a row she’s there behind him. It alarms Max. I told him, Max, relax. She’s a new kid. Maybe what you should do is change your routine. He didn’t listen and then a few days later two men tried to nab him outside his apartment.’
‘Like forcefully?’ Tami with that expression on her face Mace knew meant I’m not buying thi
s.
‘Exactly. This makes Max very nervous. He packs suitcases, and does a runner that night.’
‘And this was, when?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
Mace looked at Oumou’s vase. Elegance, proportion, they’d been her hallmarks. The thing was so beautiful it could make you weep. He was about to ask when Max had last made contact.
Oosthuizen beat him to it, said, ‘I got a call from him yesterday. He tells me he’s in Sana’a.’
‘Yemen? I’ve been there.’
‘Exactly. It is a good place to hide out, and once it was a good place to do business.’
‘He can fly in from there.’
‘No.’
‘What’re you scared of?’ said Mace. ‘Exactly?’
‘Everyone.’ Oosthuizen palmed his hands flat on the table. The hairs on his knuckles stiff as brushes. ‘Look. This deal isn’t about three weapons systems for our boats. It is about international sales. The Argentineans, the Chileans, Brazil, the Aussies, the Turks, maybe even the Japs. Probably even licences to European manufacturers. We are talking big bucks, do you understand? Also it is about a small guy, me, putting one on the main manne, the huge arms manufacturers. Do you understand me? The big boys don’t like it.’ Oosthuizen glanced from Mace to Tami. ‘I am not a scared man. Many times before in my life people have tried to kill me.’ He magicked up a Colt long barrel from somewhere under his jacket, brandished it. ‘Anyone tries it they meet Mister Anaconda.’
‘Impressive,’ said Mace.
‘History,’ said Tami. ‘That gun’s not made anymore.’
Oosthuizen squinted at her, like he hadn’t heard right. ‘You would know of course?’
Tami nodded.
Oosthuizen sneered. ‘It still shoots.’ He tucked the gun away. Leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands up in the style of a blessing. ‘So, Mr Bishop, what do you say?’
‘Slowly,’ said Mace, ‘hold on. Another question.’
Oosthuizen lowered his hands. ‘Yes?’ Dubious.
‘Your man, your Max Roland, he feels safe there in Sana’a?’
‘Apparently.’
‘How long’s he been there?’
‘Three days at least but probably longer. For a week we were out of touch. But Max is a resourceful man, except now he is getting nervous so I must bring him home.’
‘He’s a scientist. Scientists don’t go on the run.’
‘This one does. He is military trained.’
Mace looked at him. Thought: what’re you not telling us? Said, ‘What’re you not telling us?’
Oosthuizen laughed. Embarrassed. Glanced to his left. ‘What d’you mean?’ Swung back to stare at Mace. ‘Max Roland is a weapons specialist. He has a military background. Part of that training required self-protection. Believe me, Mr Bishop, he is a man who understands the stakes in this industry. He knows the risks. Possibly this is even part of what he likes about his career. Some glamour. Some intrigue. Some secrets to tempt the ladies. What more can I tell you about this man? Max Roland likes money. We all like money. He also likes women. All sorts of women, but especially he likes expensive women. Married women, dangerous women whose men occupy positions of power. In government, industry, sport. Especially if the men are powerful, Max will lust for their women. But he is like a bird, he only takes a few bites at the fruit before he goes to the next one. That is Max.’
‘Delightful,’ said Tami.
Oosthuizen took it. ‘If you are shocked you shouldn’t be here, miss.’
Mace thought, oh shit. Waited.
‘Mogale,’ Tami said.
Oosthuizen fully fixed on her. ‘What?’
‘My surname, Mr Oosthuizen.’ The mister italicised. ‘Like Mr Bishop. Ms Mogale.’
Mace came in. ‘He’s been there since before the weekend, that’s a long time. A German in Sana’a doesn’t exactly blend in with the citizens.’
‘Max knows what he’s doing.’
‘Staying in one place. Doesn’t sound like it to me. I’d be moving about if I were him.’
‘Probably he is. Because that’s where he told me he was doesn’t mean that’s where he is now. Either way, I need to get him back. Tomorrow. Do I have your help or do I go elsewhere?’
‘It’s a tough one,’ said Mace, wanting to buy time.
‘Simple one,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘Yes or no.’
‘Tami?’ said Mace.
Tami said, ‘You’re the boss.’
Mace looked at the vase for help. He couldn’t turn it down. Not money like that.
‘The best I can do,’ he said to Oosthuizen, ‘is get one of my staff there tomorrow. Probably. If we can get on the flight.’
‘You,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘The best you can do is get you there tomorrow.’
‘Impossible,’ said Mace.
‘Nothing is impossible, Mr Bishop.’
‘Tomorrow is. Three days’ time, Thursday, is the best I can do.’ Three days to get back Veronica Dinsmor. In three days Pylon would be operative, sort of.
‘A compromise. How about Wednesday? I can reassure him. Another day will probably not be so serious.’ Oosthuizen shuffled the papers into his file, closed it. Picked the last of the chocolate biscuits off the plate. ‘May I?’ Without waiting for an answer, crunched into it. Chewed, grinned at Mace. ‘Think of the money, Mr Bishop. A stack of crisp greenbacks.’
Mace thought of the money. ‘Alright, Wednesday.’
‘Excellent.’ Oosthuizen beaming at him.
The morning of smiles seeming suddenly less sunny to Mace. His cellphone rang.
‘I’ll see you out, Mr Oosthuizen,’ said Tami.
Mace connected, watching Oosthuizen following Tami’s arse as she led him down the passage. Wasn’t a man who didn’t admire Tami’s arse. The voice in his ear, male voice, coloured voice, said, Ah, Mr Bishop, I’m an account advisor at the bank. I wonder if you could come in to see me.’
‘About?’ said Mace, knowing full well.
‘Ah, your overdraft’s running a little high. And … there’s your bond repayments. You’ve missed the last one.’
Mace said, ‘My wife was murdered.’
An intake of breath. A stuttering apology. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry, Mr Bishop, sorry about this but you see …’
Mace kept out of what it was he should see, let the account advisor stumble on.
‘… You see we’ve got this problem … If you come in we can maybe work something out. It’s just this has happened before, you see. A couple of times. Mr Bishop?’
‘It’s very difficult for me now,’ said Mace.
‘Ja, I understand of course,’ said the account advisor. ‘It’s just … You see it’s just that if we could make an appointment it would be better. Then I can tell my boss you’re coming in. You see. We could even make it for Thursday. Say in the afternoon.’
‘Alright,’ said Mace. Heard in his head: ‘I see a red door …’
‘Sorry for your grief, Mr Bishop,’ said the account advisor. ‘Strues.’
Mace thinking, This’s all I need – somewhere in his mind Mick singing, ‘… and I want it painted black.’
19
Veronica Dinsmor hurt. Pain throbbed in her temples. Her face ached. Her shoulders ached. The taste of blood thick in her mouth. She wanted water. Wanted the bathroom. She watched her captors: the tall one, the driver, sitting at the desk opposite her toying with his cellphone; the short one in the van. She had to turn her head to see the minivan, there he was in the front seat listening to the radio. The radio too faint for her to hear it.
She was cold. Shivered. Trembled. Her legs shaking despite the ties, uncontrollably.
She glanced up at the skylights, dull hazy rectangles. Could be eight o’clock, could be eleven o’clock. Could even be the afternoon. In the warehouse a pervading gloom, a grey zone. Grey concrete floor. Grey brick walls. Grey girders. Grey tin roof. A leaden light.
Outside she sensed activity. Distant activity. Engines. Band saw whine
. Hammering. Far off, someone calling. Everything too far off.
She wondered if Silas was dead. Had glimpsed the muzzle flash of shots before the short one got her down on the minivan floor. If he was dead, what good was she? The thought ached in her bladder.
‘I want the bathroom,’ she said, the words loud in her head, the sound a mewling through the gag.
The driver stared at her. Hard eyes, hard face. Not stopping the flip flip flip of his cellphone.
She made the noise again.
He said, ‘Stay calm, my lady. Soon, soon, ne.’
Veronica Dinsmor tried a scream. It came out as a long ‘neeeeeh.’
The man shook his head.
Nothing for it. She pissed herself. That got his attention.
Got him jumping. Scooting round the desk, voluble in a strange language. Resonant tongue clucks sharp as sticks breaking. He circled her, hit her head with his open palm. Not a hard blow. More out of irritation. But the smack stung. Brought tears to her eyes.
Tears from the pain, and the bladder relief.
‘Water,’ she said when the man stopped in front of her, shouted his strange language in her face. Uhhh, was the noise she made.
She heard the short one then, the slam of the minivan door.
‘This’s up to shit. Big time.’ Saw him push at the one who’d been the driver. The driver stepping back to get his balance. ‘They’s dead, my bra. Mors dood. Gone.’ The driver grabbing the short one by his jacket, in his face shouting at him.
The short one saying, ‘The news. I heard it. Now, now. Shit, man, they’s dead.’
The driver pulling the short one out of her sight, behind the minivan. She could still hear him. The fear in his voice. ‘Phone her. This’s shit man. This’s not the job. Phone her. Tell her I’m gone, my bra, out of here.’
The short one quietened. The murmur of the driver’s voice going on. Lecturing. She waited, twisted in the chair towards their voices. They came round the van, stood in front of her. Stared at her.
‘Uhhhh,’ she groaned. Her sound for water.
‘She’s pissed herself,’ said the short one. ‘This’s up to shit. So much up to shit.’
The driver spoke in his language. Said in English, ‘Enough. We finish what we start.’