Strip Poker

by Lisa Lawrence

  I smiled. Carl once told me he had thought of going into engineering instead of police work, and it was just like him to come up with a mechanical solution to humans being a pain in the ass.

  “What did you tell Carl about Anthony?”

  “The truth.”

  Both Helena and I were instantly sputtering in surprise. “The truth! Why would—”

  “No, no,” said Janet quickly. “I didn’t talk about us, and they didn’t ask. I meant the truth about his work—I haven’t a clue what Anthony was working on. And I got the impression neither do they.”

  “Good,” I said. “Did they say they’ll need you for further inquiries? Do they want to bring you back?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay, I think they will, but if you’re smart, you won’t volunteer what I’m about to tell you. I think I finally know what this is all about.”

  They waited.

  I rolled my eyes, thinking how I had come full circle to fighting against the plunderers of Africa again.

  “Coltan,” I said. “It’s about Coltan.”

  11

  Janet didn’t react for a moment. Too flabbergasted to speak.

  “But…But the threats! Lionel being tortured and killed, Anthony’s murder! Are you telling me someone went to all this trouble, killed these men just for—”

  “It’s not a lot of trouble,” I broke in. “Not from their point of view. You know yourself we’re talking about billions.”

  Helena was lost. “Would one of you like to fill me in here? I haven’t a bloody clue what’s going on or what Coltan is or what either of you are talking about.”

  “It’s got to be right here in this room,” said Janet with a sad smile, “or the end product, more precisely.” She was still trying to get her head around the idea that this was the cause.

  I took Helena through it, explaining how it was a substance that looked like black mud, heavier than iron but only slightly lighter than gold, made up of columbium and tantalum, hence Col-tan. Refine the tantalum, and you get a great conductor of electricity. Fantastic heat resistance. Perfect for tiny circuit boards.

  “It’s in your laptop, Helena, your pocket organiser, and you couldn’t have mobile phone networks without it. That’s a billion-pound industry right there. They use it in aviation and atomic energy plants, too. The biggest mines for the stuff at the moment are in Australia, but…”

  “But everyone thinks most of the world reserves are in central Africa,” said Janet, picking up the thread. “Right in the Congo. That’s what’s behind all the continuing bloodshed, not all this rubbish in the media about tribal fighting.” I heard the note of simmering outrage in her voice over the issue.

  “I don’t understand,” said Helena innocently.

  Janet leaned forward on the sofa. “About five…? No, six years ago, a bunch of Tutsi rebels with backing from Uganda and Rwanda tried to topple the Congolese president. They made out he was sheltering Hutu militias who slaughtered the Tutsis in Rwanda. So armies from Angola, Zimbabwe, Namibia and Chad all came in, supposedly to back the Congo. But it was really an excuse to make a grab for the Coltan. There’s always this talk about fighting Africans, but Helena, that war was funded by a whole slew of European and British companies! There were UK firms that had export licenses to sell them arms, and there are still front companies getting the Coltan out, whether they’ve got a ‘fragile peace’ or not. Down there, you’ve got forced child labour for sifting riverbeds and mining in abandoned mines. There’s mass murder, rape and torture going on all for the sake of mobile phones.”

  “I’ve never heard anything about this,” remarked Helena, “and I like to think I’m reasonably well informed.”

  “The TV networks don’t want to have to explain Africa, they’d rather show pictures of all the dark people fighting,” I said bitterly. “About three years ago, though, the UN came out with a report that implicated a whole list of companies in the Coltan trade at the time.”

  My hand fell on the mouse of her PC. Her ADSL was already on, and within a few seconds, I had called up the report. There they were: Amalgamated Metal Corp., Afrimex, Euromet, De Beers and on it went.

  “These days, you find disclaimers on certain corporate websites all over the place, saying the firms buy their tantalum now from sources outside the Congo. Coltan’s not as easy to trace back as, say, conflict diamonds. Problem is, only about two thirds of the stuff could possibly be coming from other places. That’s why Anthony was killed. He had figured out the paper trail of manufactured capacitors to the tantalum, and the money changing hands all the way back to Kinshasa.”

  Janet was overwhelmed by a new tide of grief. “Oh, my God.”

  Helena and I both froze.

  “I’m supposed to address a conference on African unity next month,” Janet went on. “We…we couldn’t decide what the topic of my speech was. I said maybe I should give Coltan a rest—perhaps I should look at economic development instead. Anthony said wait a bit, maybe he could find something new for me, but no promises…”

  Helena gave her a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

  Janet was still in shock. “This is really over me speaking out on it?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid so. You know the stakes. You’re a black female politician who could end up as Britain’s voice in South Africa. You could have a great deal of influence on the region. And they know you won’t be toeing the line from Downing Street. You’ll also have crucial input into Britain’s decisions. They know you won’t play ball with them.”

  “We’ve got to go back to the police,” she said impulsively.

  “We’ll do no such fool thing!” snapped Helena. “Not unless you want to toss your bloody career down the drain and take me with you.”

  “But—”

  “She’s right,” I said. “What are you going to tell them? I don’t have a shred of tangible evidence to offer. Just because I’ve figured it out doesn’t mean I’ve got proof.”

  Janet was pressing hard. “But you do know who’s behind this?”

  “It’s not that simple,” I answered. “We’re dealing with deep pockets that I’m pretty sure are on the continent. This could be one company or several that have ganged up all for the ‘common good’ to stop you being a pain in the ass.”

  Helena tapped the screen of her computer with a pen. She may not have been up on the issue, but she was a smart lady, and she noticed the absence of one particular firm.

  “I realise this list is three years old, but Buccaneer Cape Mining isn’t here,” she pointed out.

  “No, it wouldn’t be,” I explained, “because Buccaneer Cape was a late bloomer when it came to the trade. I was just coming to that.”

  I crossed over to the folder of goodies I had next to my handbag on the sofa, and I pulled out the company’s annual report.

  “Before these conglomerates got embarrassed, they didn’t mind writing about Coltan for shareholders. Here. Buccaneer Cape Mining saw it was too late to get in on the Coltan boom near the end of 2000, but it had access to copper reserves and germanium in the Katanga region. It has a presence in the country, but no one ever made a stink over it because Coltan was the hot issue, not copper.”

  Helena drew a blank. “So if they weren’t there for Coltan, then why…?”

  “Why was Lionel killed? With the ‘official’ peace on, the media flap died down over Coltan, and Lionel discovered that another big player, Orpheocon, had thought of reexploring an area north of Goma in the east of the country. It was being under-exploited. That was part of his job, to keep an eye on the competition. Here he was in London, noticing something that even executives and engineers in the field weren’t picking up on. When he said the word, it would take only a few bribes to secure the mining licenses and export permits, and Buccaneer Cape would pull the rug out from under Orpheocon’s feet.”

  “So we know at least that Orpheocon’s involved,” said Janet, shaking her head.

  I nodded. �
�And there could be others. We can’t be sure yet.”

  Helena was solemn. “They killed Lionel for a stupid analysis report.”

  “They’ve bankrolled rebels and done arms sales over Coltan,” I replied. “They’ve slaughtered thousands for it already. How much more nerve does it take to arrange the murder of one mining executive here in London?”

  “Bringing that war here,” Janet noted in disgust. “And that traitorous Tom son-of-a-bitch brought it on himself.”

  “Yes, I suppose he did,” I said quietly.

  I could lay claim to all the feelings she was having now. We had both surrendered our bodies in turn to Lionel in a casual, almost perfunctory way. For myself, the betrayal I felt didn’t hit me square in the eyes. Try a few inches lower. I had that man inside me, I thought, and he was one who didn’t care that with a few anonymous keystrokes on his computer, he could spell more misery for people who looked like me, like him.

  I couldn’t understand it, but then I didn’t know why I thought I should be able to. I didn’t understand the Rwandan guerrilla who took cash from a European bank in trade for his skill with a machine gun.

  But if Lionel could have had a change of heart, if he could have been persuaded of the culpability of his firm and others, someone took away any chance he had for redemption.

  Janet stood up and went to the bay window, muttering, “Bastard…”

  Lionel. Guilty in her mind as much as the one who tortured him to death.

  “For a long time,” I said, signalling that I wasn’t done with my explanation, “our killer fooled me exactly the way he intended to fool the cops and everyone else. He didn’t go after Lionel. He had to kill him to cover up his business—same reason he had to kill Anthony. Janet was always the original planned target.”

  I had Ms. Marshall’s attention again. Turning, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Not to be morbid,” piped up Helena before I could respond, “but he did torture Lionel.”

  She looked a little embarrassed for saying it, as if she expected Janet or me to feel more deeply about the guy than a one-night stand. In truth, it was Helena who knew him the longest.

  “I’m certain now,” I explained, “that making him strip and jerk off, all the sexual humiliation, was his attempt to kill two birds with one stone. It made the police think the motive was personal if they didn’t buy the suicide, which still threw them off the scent of Lionel’s business dealings. And the killer knew the cops would look into his sex life, which conceivably could lead back to Janet and blow the lid off the poker games.”

  “Why send him the letter, then?” asked Helena. “All it did was tip Lionel off that he was in danger.”

  “But it didn’t, really,” I argued. “Pull out the note and consider its phrasing.”

  She did, retrieving the note from her desk. I looked over her shoulder as she checked the now familiar words:

  POKING DRIED-UP OLD BITCHES HAS BEEN PROFITABLE, HASN’T IT? LUCKY AT CARDS, UNLUCKY AT LOVE. YOU’RE GOING TO WIND UP DEAD YOU KEEP SEEING HER

  “If you keep seeing her,” I said, tapping the page. “Lionel wasn’t tipped off about the real danger he was in because the note supposedly warned him to stop seeing Janet, that’s all. And that’s why we were all confused, including him. He wasn’t seeing Janet! As a matter of fact, he wasn’t seeing any woman lately. So he went on with his business, sat in on the poker games, thinking if he didn’t try to win Janet anymore, whoever was pissed off would clue in. But the note makes a reference to strip poker. ‘Lucky at cards.’ All of us reasonably assumed we were dealing with an insider, and yet any regular at the games already knew that Janet and Lionel weren’t an item.”

  “So what are you saying, darling?” asked Helena, getting confused.

  “I’m saying the purpose of the note all the time was misdirection. Had to be. If he simply blackmailed Janet, I think he was afraid he’d give the game away. Knowing how passionate she is on the Coltan issue, he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t figure out it had something to do with her crusade. By threatening Lionel he made all of us think—for a while—it was just about sex.”

  “But that’s what I mean,” insisted Helena. “He threatened Lionel, and then he killed him.”

  “You’re assuming that the letter and the murder were each part of an orchestrated plan, that one was sure to follow the other. I don’t think it happened that way. When he discovered what Lionel was up to at work and decided to kill him, he must have known there was a possibility his note might surface. So he arranged the murder to fit conveniently with his blackmail scenario.”

  “But you said Lionel was gay or bi or whatever,” Helena pointed out. “You said there was gay porn on the DVD, and ugh, too sordid!”

  “It still works,” I argued. “Gay jealous lover says stop seeing her. The police didn’t even need to learn about the note. Carl Norton and I went in that wrong direction for a while.”

  “Then why didn’t the killer send a note like that to Neil, too?” asked Janet. “He must know about Neil. Why not embarrass me with him? Or Anthony for that matter? That would have been easier.”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “Think about it. All the evidence that Neil is an escort for you is with Helena, and while I’m sure the blackmailer considered burglarising her house and getting the records, our girlfriend here is very careful. Sure, our blackmailer knows about your poker playing. He has to know—he knew about Lionel through the games. He made reference to the agency in your note and to the poker circuit in Lionel’s. But you told me Anthony never took part in the games. Never showed up for even one. It was Anthony’s own phone call to the minicab company that suggested an affair between you two. Not our blackmailer.”

  “So he might not even know,” said Helena.

  “About Anthony, no,” I said. “About Neil, I’m sure he does. But that’s where he got clever.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Janet.

  “Lionel was always the wild card. Neil would do what he could to rescue your political career and deny everything. That’s the kind of guy he is. You two could simply claim you’re ‘romantically involved,’ which in fact you are. But suppose it came out about you and Lionel? He couldn’t be controlled or swayed by personal loyalty. He could go sell his story to The Sun if he wanted to. I think our villain was actually counting on your ethics.”

  Janet was riveted. “How?”

  “Sometimes we’re on our best behaviour towards the people we don’t like,” I said. “We feel we ought to be. Neil could get a note, and you’d say, ‘I can’t let you get hurt because of me,’ and he’d say, ‘Don’t worry, baby, I’m not going to put up with this,’ and off you go to the police hand-in-hand. You wouldn’t feel the weight as much. But our blackmailer made you feel responsible for Lionel’s safety. A man you may have slept with but hardly knew and couldn’t trust. You felt responsible for protecting him. It was the right thing to do, the honourable thing.”

  Janet didn’t comment, and from her silence, both Helena and I knew it was so.

  “And here’s the kicker,” I added. “Technically, the blackmailer never put you on the hook for Lionel at all.”

  “Of course he did,” she said automatically.

  “Nope.”

  Before I even turned to her, Helena read my intention and fetched the note delivered to Janet’s house.

  “It’s all there,” I said. “Just like in Lionel’s note.”

  TIME FOR YOU TO RETIRE UNLESS YOU WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR SATURDAY NIGHTS. SAD OLD BAG, AREN’T YOU? HAVE TO PAY TO GET OFF. WHAT A JUICY STORY IT COULD BE

  “Oh, shit!” muttered Helena, and she collapsed onto the couch.

  “What?” asked Janet, confused. She turned from Helena to me. “What? I don’t get it.”

  It was Helena who answered. “Don’t you see? The bastard used me!”

  “I don’t understand,” said Janet.

  Helena was still groaning. It was up to me to spell it out.
r />   “Like I said, if he delivered a note to Neil, Neil would merely come to you. No way to predict how you’d decide to handle it. Lionel may well have been selected because he wasn’t deeply involved with you. Whether he was or not, who would he confide in? Who could he show the note to? The blackmailer had a better than fifty-fifty chance he would bring it right back to Helena. It’s her escort agency. It’s reasonable he should ask the boss for help. And when you got your note, you remember that none of us was sure whether the whole thing had simply to do with Lionel and you, or the guy was going through Helena’s client list, picking them off. Same paper, same type font. Carefully hand-delivered as well. Obviously the same blackmailer. We all forgot your note mentioned only that ‘you have to pay to get off.’ Doesn’t say with whom. So you cut back your schedule. You kept a low profile. Didn’t go to the games for a while. Not for your own sake, because you’re not about to let yourself be intimidated into the shadows. But if others are in trouble? You didn’t cut back your schedule to protect Neil or Anthony, but for Helena’s sake and Lionel’s.”

  A glimmer of comprehension now in Janet’s eyes.

  “And that’s how he knew you were shown Lionel’s note,” I went on. “Who else could have shown it to you but Helena? Who else had access? One note alone, he’s not sure what you’ll do. A second note to the right person, and he manipulates your good intentions. He’s had you all pegged. He knew Lionel wouldn’t confide in you, but Helena would trust you with it. In fact, he needed Helena to show it you, to make you keep a low profile for a while.”

  “He played us, darling,” sighed Helena, looking up at Janet. “He played us all.”

  Janet Marshall shivered, nearing her breaking point. “This is insane. I mean…what kind of sick people are we dealing with? Why all the head games? Why didn’t they just come out and expose me with Lionel or Neil when there was talk of my getting the appointment? Why not ruin me now and be done with it? God, I hate this!”