by Arno Joubert
Mitsu blinked then sat up straight. “I guess you could. I bet you he would simply deny everything.”
Neil shrugged then stood up. “No harm in trying. I’m sure I could make him change his mind.”
Alexa took her hand again. “Mitsu, honestly, who do you think killed your daughter?”
“I…I don’t know, probably some cult up in the mountains.”
“Do you think Peterson had anything to do with this?”
“No. I don’t think he’s a killer.” She turned to face Alexa then looked her straight in the eye. “The letter I received is the best clue we have. You need to follow that up.”
Alexa stood up. “OK then, we’ll go talk to Peterson. If you have anything else that could help us, anything at all, please give me a call,” Alexa said and handed Mitsu her card.
Mitsu led them to the door then gave them a feeble smile. “I will, Inspector. Good-bye. And please don’t mention any of this to Eben.”
Neil tried in vain to contact Andy Peterson. According to his supervisor, he hadn’t been at work for a couple of days; the man thought he probably absconded because he knew he was going to be fired after attacking the Interpol agents. He said that it happened regularly. Dr. Petzer never hesitated to take action when someone didn’t follow orders. He said he would find out from the doctor and get back to Neil.
They were seated in their booth at the Howling Moon. It had become their regular meeting place. Alexa had another reason for meeting there: she wanted to confirm that Theron was sticking to his promise. As soon as they appeared in the doorway, the man came over and greet them nervously then disappeared back into his office. His hand was heavily bandaged.
Neil sighed in frustration. It felt like they had hit a dead end. Alexa looked up from a book that she had borrowed from the library. “What?”
“Where to from here?”
“I think I found something.” She pushed the book toward Neil then placed the sheet of paper with Alida’s poem next to the book. “Notice any difference?”
The book was a collection of poems by Ingrid Jonker. It was falling apart and the pages were yellow and worn. It was open at the poem Alida had copied. He quickly scanned the poem and noticed that Alida’s had an extra line in hers.
“She added the line, ‘Scavenges in the forests and plains, evermore the hunger pains,’” he said.
“Why would she put that in there?”
Neil shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s referring to someone who’s scavenging in the forest and plains somewhere.”
“The only forest and plain around here is up at Mueller’s.”
“So the poem talks about young kids scavenging the forests and plains because they’re hungry?”
“Among other things, yes,” Alexa nodded.
“But this line is pertinent because we found footprints up there that belong to a young kid?”
“Exactly.”
Neil grabbed his jacket. “I guess we probably need to check the place out again. Our answer to this whole damn affair is somewhere up in those mountains.”
Alexa slipped out of the booth. “I think you’re right, Sergeant.”
Alexa drove the familiar road up the side of the mountain towards Mueller’s Dam. It was deserted, their own dusty tracks the only evidence of their previous visit. “What did you think of Mitsu’s story? Do you really think she was being blackmailed?” Neil asked.
“No, she was lying through her teeth. She’s trying to protect someone.”
“So who would the drugs have been for?”
Alexa glanced sideways at Neil. “Who do you think?”
Neil shrugged.
“Mitsu was sniffing and sniveling, and she was acting strange. She was edgy.”
“You think Mitsu was using the drugs?”
Alexa nodded slowly. “I know she did, still does.”
“So she lied to us. About the affair and the blackmail?”
Alexa tilted her head in a side-to-side rhythm. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m not sure.”
Neil downshifted then pulled up close to the large reservoir. Alexa got out and looked up at the gigantic concrete dam. The sun had already started baking the grey structure, and the heat radiated from the walls.
“Where did Bruce find the footprints?” Alexa asked.
Neil led her into the forest where he picked up the trail. They managed to track the prints to a boulder. “Hello, this is interesting,” Alexa said, kneeling next to the print.
Neil hunched down next to her. “What?”
She took a stick and circled another, larger footprint. “Look familiar?”
“What?”
Alexa knew the footprint well. A size eleven, French-Army-issued boot with the distinctive edging grooves and a four-diamond pattern on the sole. She had seen it a thousand times before. Seen it in the Sahara desert and in the Bolivian jungle. It belonged to the person who had trained her, who had set her through her grueling paces. What distinguished this one from any other track was that the left boot had a blank heel. Exactly like General Laiveaux’s. Because the general had injured his leg in a skirmish in Afghanistan, and he had his boot modified to minimize his limp. She wondered what the hell he was doing here and when he had arrived. Why didn’t he tell her?
She looked up at Neil. “It belongs to General Laiveaux.”
“What’s he doing here?” Neil asked.
“Let’s find out.” She pulled her cell from her pocket and retrieved the general’s number. After a moment she said, “It’s going to voice mail. Let’s get back to town. There’s only one hotel, he should be there.”
Neil nodded and headed toward the car. Alexa punched another number into her phone as they walked. “Hello, Dad?”
“Hi, Alexa. What’s up?”
“Did you know that Laiveaux was in town?”
“No, I didn’t. Why?” He sounded confused.
“I found his footprint up at Mueller’s Dam.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“I’ll phone him.”
“He’s not answering. I’m going into town to see if I can find him there.”
“At the Blue Whale Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“OK, I’ll meet you there.”
Bruce was sitting on the porch wall waiting for them, his long legs reaching the ground comfortably. He stood up and hugged Alexa warmly then greeted Neil. “How old was that grey fox’s print?” he asked.
“A day at most. Why didn’t he tell us he was here?” Alexa answered.
Bruce smiled and removed his glasses. “You never know with him, Alexa. You should know that by now.”
Alexa snorted. “He could at least have phoned.”
They walked into the reception area together. Battered leather couches stood against the wall, and a table with magazines rounded off the interior decor. The reception counter was a long wooden desk, nothing special. There was a computer and a phone and a small bell alongside a large, leather-bound book that probably contained the guest bookings. A sign on the wall informed them that they were now in a South African Tourism certified three-star establishment.
A black guy with Coke bottle glasses smiled at them. “Welcome to the Blue Whale inn. How may I help you today?” His front teeth were missing.
“Hi, my name is Captain Alexa Guerra from Interpol.” She flashed him her badge. “We need some information.”
“How may I help, ma’am?”
“Did a gentleman named Alain Laiveaux check in here recently?”
The man held up a finger then quickly typed something into his computer. “Do you mind spelling the surname for me, please?”
She spelled it out in the NATO phonetic alphabet.
He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. We have no one here by that name.”
“You sure? He’s a tall, grey-haired French man with a limp, probably wearing a blue uniform.”
The man’s face lit up, making his eyes look even larg
er. “Ah, yes, Monsieur Thomassie. Yes, he left this morning with his granddaughter.” He gave her a toothless grin.
“His granddaughter?”
The man nodded. “Yes, his granddaughter. It struck me as peculiar, as she had foreign features, you know, kind of Asian looking. I guess his son has a finely developed taste for the Orient,” he guffawed. He glanced over Alexa’s shoulder at Neil and looked embarrassed. “Monsieur Thomassie Junior, I presume,” he said with a smile. “I was only joking about the taste for the Orient, I personally think they are beautiful woman. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Me?” Neil asked perplexed.
“Yes, he showed me your photo. Am I right about your daughter being from Asian origin?”
Alexa pumped him in his ribs. “Um, yes, absolutely,” Neil said and nodded.
The man grinned, and Alexa almost laughed at the gapped smile. “Thanks for all your help. I guess Mr. Thomassie Junior just missed him.”
They greeted and left. She turned to Bruce as they strolled outside. “Why would Laiveaux take the girl without telling us?”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He punched a number into his cell then waited a couple of seconds before it was answered. A hasty conversation ensued and he disconnected. “OK, I got hold of him. He’s in Pattaya and he’s disembarking now. He couldn’t speak.”
“Is the girl with him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Bruce shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
After Laiveaux collected his weapon from the safety deposit box in the cockpit, he headed toward the arrival area. He was met by a brawny Asian guy in an undersized pinstripe suit. It was literally straining at the seams. The man was brandishing a piece of cardboard that had the words La Vogue scribbled in a clumsy cursive, like a kid had written it. The man recognized the general from his uniform and stomped toward him. “Follow me.”
Laiveaux obliged. He held the girl’s hand and was led to a black Mercedes CLK. “Get in,” the guy ordered. He gunned the gas and the tires squealed. He rushed through the busy streets, trying his best to get a wheel spin from the automatic sedan every time he pulled away. He glanced at his rearview mirror, probably trying to see if the drive was unnerving the old man. Laiveaux didn’t care how he drove. The car was the safest in its class. The girl cowered in the seat, looking at her lap.
The landscape changed from busy intersections with tall blocks of buildings and honking traffic to a greener suburban layout. Beautiful homes with lush green lawns and tropical fruit trees rushed by as the big man accelerated toward their ultimate destination. The houses became sparse, and the countryside stretched for kilometers through freshly plowed farmlands and sugarcane fields. It reminded Laiveaux of Mozambique, a tropical paradise.
After ten minutes the driver made a right turn. The road started climbing up the side of a hill covered by jungle. Laiveaux could make out the Thai gulf and the beautiful white beaches dotted with palm trees. Alas, the view soon disappeared as they headed into another suburban sprawl, and the traffic became a blaring cacophony once again. After another ten minutes of start-stop driving, the sedan pulled into a gate. The sign had a rainbow and flowers and said, “Welcome to Happy Sunshine Clinic.” It also had more cursive in a funny language that Laiveaux didn’t understand. Probably one of the thousands of Asian languages out there.
The big man pulled open the door. “Get out. Follow me.”
They skipped up the steps to the porch of the dilapidated building. Dr. Thak Wattana was waiting at the entrance, a thin smile on his lips. “Please, follow me, General.”
Laiveaux nodded and followed him inside. They entered a small reception area decorated with fluffy toys, multicolored plastic furniture, and posters of happy families with smiling faces. There was a reception desk and another two entrances to the left and right. The door on the left had a sign that said, “Clinic,” and the one to the right said, “Office Private No Entry.” A pretty girl wearing a nurse’s uniform appeared from the clinic door and held out her hand to the girl. The nurse said something to her, but the girl refused to let go of Laiveaux’s hand; she looked terrified. The nurse jerked her hand out of Laiveaux’s and dragged her into the clinic. The girl sobbed and shouted and tried to hold on to the doorframe, but she was no match for the bigger woman who jostled her through the opening.
Wattana watched the spectacle impassively then opened the door to the office and ushered Laiveaux inside. The driver came in last and stood in a corner, his arms folded on his chest. Laiveaux thought he heard the material rip.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Wattana said and pointed Laiveaux to a chair. The office was dark and damp and musty. Light filtered in from a tiny window with metal bars, and a noisy air conditioner was cranking out cold air at full speed. Wattana sat behind a desk, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “Do you want a drink?”
Laiveaux shook his head. “Do you have my money?”
Wattana smiled, then he dragged a black duffle bag from beneath the table and tossed it to Laiveaux. “All there in brand new hundred dollar bills. Ten thousand of them.”
Laiveaux unzipped the bag and peered inside. The weight felt about right.
“Tell me what you know about our little operation, General.”
Laiveaux placed the duffle bag on the floor beside him then shrugged. “Everything.”
Wattana raised an eyebrow. “How?”
Laiveaux leaned back in his chair, matching Wattana’s body language by steepling his fingers as well. “At Interpol we tend to keep a close eye on industry leaders—such as yourself, of course—in the hope of anticipating future criminally-conducive behavior, the wrong knowledge in the wrong hands, you know, that kind of thing.”
Wattana nodded. “Of course.”
“The knowledge you possess could be invaluable as well as lethal to the human race, am I not right, dear Doctor?”
Wattana shrugged.
“Furthermore, your research is not being regulated by an approved and duly registered research agency, such as the FDA. Interpol has a problem with that.”
Wattana shrugged. “Screw Interpol.”
“Yes indeed, dear Doctor. The only problem you’ll have with ‘screwing’ us, as you so eloquently put it, Dr. Wattana, is that Interpol will be all over you like a rash. We have the legal right to seize all your assets and research materials, lab equipment, anything we damn well please. We’ll freeze your bank accounts, and don’t think your lucre is safe in Switzerland or Mauritius, either. You’re not dealing with the damn FBI, Doctor; this is Interpol, and we have extradition treaties with all countries in the world, including Thailand.” Laiveaux smiled pleasantly. “The moment you arouse our interest, we hunt you, we find you, and we smoke you out of your shit-hole like the mangy fox you are, you piece of crap.”
Wattana pursed his lips, rocking back and forth in his chair. He shook his head at the man standing at the back of the room.
Laiveaux wondered if his chair could do that as well. Ah, it could. What fun.
“What else?” Wattana asked.
Laiveaux held up two fingers. “Second red flag: Nice Sukhon’s murder.” Another finger. “Third red flag: a cargo plane left Pattaya for South Africa and then somehow lost a load of humans in the bloody Atlantic Ocean.” He sighed. “Should I go on?”
Wattana closed his eyes. “No, I get the picture. But why me? What do I have to do with any of this?”
“Two of my agents visited you a week ago.”
“Yes, I remember them. Inspectors Alexa Guerra and Neil Allen.”
“We managed to plant a bug in your office.”
His chair creaked as Wattana sat up straight. “Where is it?”
Laiveaux pried the dried piece of gum from beneath the table. He tossed it to Wattana, who examined it closely. It contained a small metal capsule.
“Shit.”
Laiveaux smiled. “It seems that you like to talk to yo
urself, Doctor.”
Wattana seemed uncomfortable, like his pants had suddenly become hot. ”I do?”
Laiveaux pulled a face. “‘Why did you do this, Voice, and you did that, Voice, and please leave me alone, Voice,’” Laiveaux mocked, then he waved a dismissive hand. “We know you killed Nice.”
Wattana kept quiet.
“And we know you’re up to no good with these girls. Something illegal, I’ll hazard a guess.”
Wattana nodded again. “OK, so I run an abortion clinic. I cannot watch these girls suffer like they do. Their parents banish them from their homes. Thai people call it ‘losing face.’”
Laiveaux snorted. “The kid I brought here is only six.”
Wattana nodded. “Sometimes the girls come here too late. We don’t abort after the second trimester. We keep these for adoption.”
“What does the number eight one three on her back mean?” Laiveaux asked.
Wattana waved his hand. “That’s her batch number. It’s nothing important.”
Laiveaux raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Doctor, surely you’re not telling me everything. You’re not making millions as an undercover adoption agency. Be that as it may, it seems our little chat is over.” Laiveaux stood up, picking up the duffle bag.
“Not so fast, General,” Wattana said and waved his bodyguard over. Laiveaux noticed Wattana touch his pulse, like he was fastening a cuff link.
Laiveaux slipped the Glock from his shoulder holster and stuck it in Wattana’s face. Gigantor hadn’t even performed a body search. “Exactly, not so fast, Doctor.” He pulled a manila envelope from his jacket and tossed it on Wattana’s table.
“What’s this?”
“A copy of all the intel I’ve managed to gather regarding your little operation. Airport surveillance camera footage. You travel extensively. Transcripts from the recorded conversations my bug picked up. Everything.” Laiveaux studied his nails. “If I don’t phone my secretary in fifteen minutes, she has instructions to mail copies to all division heads in Interpol.”