by Mike Nicol
20
Silas Dinsmor played silent Injun, staring straight ahead on the drive to the casino.
Back at the hotel had been grim-visaged when Mace picked him up.
First words he said: ‘I haven’t heard from them.’
Mace, glancing at the mess in the bedroom, thinking now Silas looked more like a man with a kidnapped wife. Agitated. Swallowing a lot. Spider hands on the move: touching his face, brushing over his hair, picking lint off his suit.
Mace said, ‘This is what I think it is, they’ll be watching. See if you pitch up.’
‘And then?’
‘Find out what you’ve got to say.’
‘One of them’s in on this?’
‘Sure.’
End of conversation.
Before they went out the bedroom door the Complete Security guy whispered to Mace. ‘Oke’s been on that phone for an hour. A US call. Must be earlier than six o’ clock there. Talking in Indian.’
Mace told him to hang about the hotel. Watch the comings and goings.
He and Silas Dinsmor got in the Spider, drove off in silence, Mace taking a route through the suburbs, over the Black River into pristine Pinelands, garden estate. Where judges, politicians, spooks bought houses. All the hues of the rainbow nation. Was going to comment on this but didn’t. Glanced sideways at the clenched jawline of Silas Dinsmor’s big face and kept quiet.
Kept shut up across the back of the industrial estates to the grand casino: a wonderland that could’ve been Italian or French or anywhere, in fact, but where it was.
No comment from Silas Dinsmor. Not a word crossing the parking lot to the lift, up in the lift to the offices, down the corridor to reception. Mace announcing them. A PA with a red smile ushering them into a boardroom. Nice aspect of the mountain in the window. The boardroom just not high enough up the building to get the full grey sweep of Maitland cemetery.
Silas Dinsmor took a seat in the middle of the table, back to the wall, facing the view. Two women, three men came in, Ms Red Lips following. The woman leading the delegation introduced herself by name and title, legal director. Did the same for her colleagues, names Mace instantly forgot. No problem, only the legal director did the talking.
Opened with: ‘We are fully appraised of what happened last night, Mr Dinsmor, and you have our complete support.’ Took a seat opposite him. Her hands flat on the table, long well-manicured fingernails clear varnished. Looking him full in the face to express sincerity. ‘This is a traumatic, awful situation. Absolutely unacceptable.’ She glanced at her colleagues lined either side of her, they nodded. ‘Whatever we can do to help, to ease matters … If you would rather not continue until Mrs Dinsmor …’ – she hesitated – ‘… until this matter is resolved, has been resolved, we fully understand.’
Red Lips served tea. Placed a plate of chocolate biscuits in the centre of the table. Not Bahlsen’s. Not anywhere like the quality. Mace thought he could downgrade the Bahlsen’s when clients called. Go for a local digestive. His cellphone vibrated: Pylon.
The legal director saying, ‘Following the report in this morning’s newspaper we, the casino, have issued a statement, on behalf of the casino management. A strongly worded position.’ The man to her right slid a piece of paper towards Silas Dinsmor. Kept his fingers on it until Silas Dinsmor drew it in. ‘We’re condemning, in no uncertain terms, this terrorism. That’s what we’ve called it, terrorism. That’s what it is. Criminals, thugs, holding society to ransom. This threat is against us all. You’ll see there’ – she pointed at the press release lying before Silas Dinsmor – ‘we’re demanding the release of your wife immediately. Before this thing goes any further. I have, also, personally been on to the police, the police commissioner, to express our deep disappointment that this sort of thing can go on. I know him, Mr Dinsmor, the police commissioner, he is as concerned as we are. He tells me, reassures me, they are doing everything they can. Seriously. Everything.’
She stopped. Silas Dinsmor read the press release. Mace glanced round the table, wondered which of the casino people was in on the kidnapping.
‘I appreciate this,’ said Silas Dinsmor tapping the release.
‘It’s a gesture.’ The legal director leant forward, stretched out a hand as if she were reaching out to touch Silas Dinsmor. ‘Our feeling,’ she said, ‘under the circumstances, is to wait, not take matters any further. This’s the advice we’re taking. In-house. Our lawyers’ opinion. Even the police commissioner.’ She withdrew her hand slowly trailing her fingers, like withdrawing a lifeline. ‘We’ve been having,’ she said, ‘tourists targeted. By syndicates. I’m sure you’re aware. But the police tell me, the commissioner tells me, this isn’t a random thing. You were both targeted. You and your wife. They wanted you both. This has to be tied to something else, Mr Dinsmor. The only thing we can think of is our business deal.’
A quiet in the room. The low hum of air-conditioning, fluorescent lighting. Mace felt his cellphone vibrate with messages.
‘Why would that be?’
The legal director said, ‘There is another offer on the table, Mr Dinsmor.’
‘Local people?’ Silas Dinsmor hunched in his seat.
‘Yes.’
‘This is how they do business?’
‘Mr Dinsmor,’ the legal director sighed, ‘Mr Dinsmor, let me explain something. This might not seem related, relevant, but we’ve got to think about it. Last week in a township not twenty kilometres away, fifteen Somali shop owners were attacked by a mob. Five killed, their shops looted, razed to the ground. Their families attacked, two women, girls actually, raped. Those people are living in refugee shelters now. They can’t go home. All because they’re better businesspeople than the locals. Their prices are lower. The customers are scoring. Paying less for essentials. You’d think they’d be welcome. But no. They’re seen as taking away livelihoods. They’re not seen as competition, they’re seen as invaders. A new sort of colonialism, Mr Dinsmor. Here we call it xenophobia.’ She stopped to drink tea. ‘It’s in the air. You understand what I’m saying.’
‘That my wife has been kidnapped to take us out of the equation. Ah, come on.’
‘Yes. In fact, that you were both targeted.’
‘You people will behave like this?’
‘Not us, Mr Dinsmor. Some people in this society. Unfortunately. It’s deeply regrettable but it’s a fact. Crime is out of hand. So, yes, it is a possibility, yes.’ Her head nodding.
‘You sit there telling me this. Calmly. Like it’s no big deal. You’re running a democracy here, ma’am, so I’m informed. A liberal capitalist state. You’re encouraging investment, from the brochures I read. I see comments from your finance minister, the director of your reserve bank, cabinet ministers inviting me to do business here. I go to seminars encouraging me to explore an expanding economy. Low inflation. Six per cent growth rate. Excellent banking laws. Nowhere do I hear whispers of banana republic. Sure, I hear tell of crooks and bandits. Crooks and bandits are everywhere. I hear stories of crime. Street muggings. Car hijackings. Which is why I engaged Mr Bishop here, not that it helped much.’
Mace thought, thanks, pal. Felt the heat in his face, on the palms of his hands. The casino people checking him out. But Silas Dinsmor wasn’t pausing, headed into a full rant about the accepted principles of doing business. Along the lines practised in the civilised Western world. How this sort of incident gave Africa its image as a basket case. A violent hell-hole of jealous backstabbers. His words.
To which the legal director said, ‘We know this is a traumatic time for you …’
Getting no further before Silas Dinsmor snapped, ‘Don’t patronise me.’ His hands balled in fists, those fists not far off pounding the table.
‘I didn’t mean to … My apologies.’ The legal director collecting herself. ‘Mr Dinsmor. Mr Dinsmor, it is as likely that we will hear from the kidnappers as yourself. In fact it is more likely that we will be contacted. If this is what we believe it is, and
not random. My sense, and that of the police, is that your wife would have been released already if this was random. If this was a tourist hijacking they would have taken your cash, credit cards, electronic gadgets. It would have been over in a few minutes. This is a kidnapping. Believe me, when they call they will demand that our dealings cease.’ She paused, eyes on Silas Dinsmor. ‘Mr Dinsmor, the casino, under the circumstances, would understand if you withdrew your offer. Obviously, penalty clauses …’
‘Never.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The deal stays on the table.’ His hands relaxed, his fingers opened. ‘I’m not going to back down. We have been in this sort of situation before. Then too, Veronica was kidnapped. We did not back down, we will not do so now.’
The legal director glanced at her colleagues, at Mace, frowning, her mouth slightly open as if to speak. She didn’t. Mace’s cellphone vibrated on the tabletop, breaking the quiet.
‘I’m afraid …’ she said, watching the phone shudder twice, its screen light flashing. ‘I didn’t …’ Then: ‘I think you need to talk with the police to get their views.’
‘I have. All morning. Ma’am, I’m sticking to our proposal.’
21
Max Roland was agitated. The paperback lay open on his lap. He hadn’t read for hours. Hadn’t tried to. Couldn’t concentrate. He chewed qat leaves and maybe that helped and maybe it didn’t.
After these limbo days he was antsy. Needing to be on the move again. In transit no longer felt safe. In transit felt in transit: like he was pinned in the middle of a target. Suddenly this place, this hotel was dangerous. By now they had to know where he’d found sanctuary, were waiting for him to make the move.
Yesterday he’d bought a local SIM card, afraid to use the hotel phone again. Today he’d not taken his morning run through the souk, worried that in the tangle of lanes he could be disappeared too easily.
He changed the SIM cards in his cellphone. Toyed with phoning Magnus Oosthuizen. Since breakfast he’d been in his room, gazing out. Watching. Resisting the phone call.
From his window Max Roland’s view overlooked a miller’s yard. Every day a camel trod a circle round the yard, harnessed by a wooden spindle to a stone mill, grinding flour. For hours. For hours Max Roland watched, mesmerised, this ancient beast perform this ancient task. The miller standing to the side, occasionally flicking a short switch. A fine powder of dust and dry dung rising about the camel’s hooves.
Beyond the miller’s yard lay a square. From his high vantage, Max Roland could see the front doors of three houses on the square. In the late afternoon, two women would come out to sweep before their properties. Always at the same time. Two black shapeless figures completely covered except for their eyes. He saw a harshness in the forms with only small feet flashing below the hems.
The women would wave to one another. He could see the gestures, had to imagine their voices. The fresh voices of young women. He imagined they were young women. Imagined that beneath their abayas they wore tangas, wonderbras. He’d heard that. That Muslim women were not what they seemed. Especially not the modern ones in the cities. Under those black bags they wore labels: Banana Republic, Diesel, Calvin Klein, low-rise hipster jeans, silk camis. Or only underwear. To tease their men.
Max Roland longed to be among women. To see women in the flesh. Not even in the flesh, but just not hidden in black abayas sweeping silently through the streets. He wanted to hear their voices. See their hair. Their shoulders, their arms, the rhythm of their breasts in a loose top. The press of raised nipples. He shut his eyes. Brought to mind the Sea Point promenade, a trio of young women walking towards him. Their bellies above low-rise jeans. Such a soft, gentle shape a woman’s belly. Not a stomach. A belly, rounded, curved. To slide his hand from the belly-button over the rise down the long slope, Max Roland sighed, that was a pleasure. He remembered the trio passing him, their laughter, their gay voices. That’d made him smile. Made him turn round to admire their pert backsides.
He couldn’t stay much longer in this city of men. This city of hidden women.
The two sweepers had stopped to talk. Even in the sunlight of the empty square, the black shapes defied his imagination. He could not see the women beneath, could not imagine any part of them. He had to get out of here. Out of this stifling room, this crumbling building, this hot and antique city. Away to a place of women. Where you could hear them, see them. He wanted the smell of a woman on his fingers.
Max Roland phoned Magnus Oosthuizen.
‘Get me out,’ he said.
Oosthuizen said, ‘I’m doing that. It’s set for Wednesday.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Max Roland.
‘I thought you were relaxed about this.’
Max Roland looked at the two women talking in the square. The two black shapes. ‘I was.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I’m not.’
‘Something’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened. Time’s passed. That’s what’s happened.’
‘Wait, Max. Okay, just wait. Only two days.’
The women turned in his direction, seemed to be looking at the hotel. He could see the pillbox opening in their burkas.
Max Roland had been to the square, had stood where they stood now to consider the aspect: a cityscape of buildings none higher than six storeys. Behind them the rise of the old town, the minarets of the Great Mosque just visible. He’d searched out the window of his room. Anyone in the frame would be visible. One pace back they’d disappear into the gloom. He was in the gloom. The women couldn’t see him. Yet he withdrew further into the room.
‘Two days,’ he said. ‘In two days’ time. That is unacceptable.’
Magnus Oosthuizen pulled one of his silences.
‘Two days, Magnus,’ said Max Roland. Hissing the words.
‘Max,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘Listen, Max. Hell, man, calm down. Where’s this coming from? This is not Max Roland. This is not the man I know.’
‘Two days, Magnus.’
‘Max, Max, hold on. Okay, hold on. What’s the problem?’
Max Roland sat down on the bed. From there he could no longer see the women in the square. He looked out over rooftops and domes and minarets. Looked out to the hazed hills that ringed the city. Two days. He couldn’t wait two days.
‘I’m organising everything,’ Magnus Oosthuizen was saying. ‘The trouble’s not where you are, the trouble’s here. I’ve got to arrange things. Get us properly protected.’
Max Roland swore in German. ‘When I left it wasn’t like that. There was no trouble.’
‘When you left no one knew what we had. They thought we were cowboys. Now they know what we can do. Things are different, Max. We have what everybody wants. The best weapons system. We have the key to big big money.’
A long silence from Oosthuizen: such quiet Max could hear the miller talking to his camel.
He let out a long sigh of air. Said, ‘Ja, gut.’ The hotel pension proprietor’s saying. From a long time ago.
‘Two days, Max. Two days, okay. That’s all I ask you. Take a tourist trip. Do something. Two days will pass quickly.’
Max Roland stood up, cut the connection. The women had gone indoors. The square was empty. Two days. He couldn’t wait two days. In two days the others might make a move.
22
Sheemina February folded a black negligee under her pillow. Not typical of her, this lingerie. But a cotton shift wouldn’t cut it. Placed a rosebud in a vase on the marble top. She closed the curtains, picked up her suitcase on the way out. In the corridor pulled the door closed with her gloved hand, heard the lock click home.
Five minutes later, Sheemina February accelerated the X5 into Victoria Road, headed for the city, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss on the sound system: Gone, gone, gone.
First stop was her hairdresser. ‘Wash it out,’ she told the stylist. ‘Give me back my black. And shorter in the neck, floppy over the forehead.’
‘
A bit butch isn’t it?’
‘Butch’s working,’ said Sheemina February. ‘It’s a man’s world, so we’re told.’
‘On your head be it.’
Made Sheemina February laugh out loud. ‘Nicely put.’
An hour later she was back in her car, not butch at all, very stylish. Got out of the city to the croon of Robert and Alison.
She took a call from Magnus Oosthuizen on the West Coast road heading for the beach cottage that had come her way courtesy of a land deal. A deal she’d scored over Pylon Buso. A deal that’d put people in the ground: her one-time client Obed Chocho, the young couple, the Smits, who’d owned the cottage. A deal made her smile whenever she thought about it. She saw Oosthuizen’s name come up, adjusted her Bluetooth. ‘Good news, Magnus?’
‘Yes and no,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mace Bishop couldn’t resist the money.’
‘He will take it on, as you said. In two days’ time.’
‘Good. So what’s the no part?’
Oosthuizen not responding, going into one of his pauses. Sheemina February tapped the steering wheel, thinking, he needed time management on his cellphone account, but kept her cool, waited. Eventually he said, ‘Max Roland’ – like he’d had to drag the name up from some swamp.
‘Tell me.’ She saw the sign for the development up ahead, took her foot off the accelerator.
‘He phoned me.’ Pause. ‘A couple of minutes ago.’ Pause.
Sheemina February braked, indicated to turn left, the SUV bouncing off the tar onto a gravel road, the road potholed with pools of water.
‘He wants me to get him out.’
‘Of course.’
‘Soonest.’
‘You are. Two days isn’t long. You said he was tough, Magnus. Trained for this sort of thing.’
‘He is.’
‘So what’s the deal?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not there. I’m telling you what he told me. He’s unhappy.’