Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  Pylon said in his pidgin Portuguese, pointing back at the boat, ‘The captain there says you’re got our crates?’

  The man looked up, his dreads falling about his face: blank eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He nodded at a container about fifty metres away, said, ‘Two hundred US.’

  Pylon shook his head. ‘Too much.’

  The Rasta went back to stirring his pot, brought up a spoonful of broth with a piece of white flesh in it, tasted the liquid, dropped the flesh back into the pot. ‘Two hundred US.’

  ‘What’s he want?’ said Mace.

  Pylon told him and Mace whistled. ‘Try half that.’

  Pylon squatted before the Rasta to make their offer. It got no visible reaction except the man repeated his position: ‘You pay two hundred’ - offering Pylon a spoonful of the stew.

  ‘Don’t refuse it,’ said Mace, going down on his haunches beside him.

  Pylon tasted the stew and passed the spoon back to the Rasta. He dipped into the pot, held the spoon to Mace. Mace took it, smelling the pungency of the fish and mussels before he sipped at the liquid, the Rasta watching him, unsmiling. The soup was salty, the flesh in the mouthful rubbery.

  The Rasta held up a key. ‘Two hundred.’

  Pylon brought out a hundred dollar note, said that first they wanted to inspect their crates, when they collected they’d pay the balance. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.

  The Rasta thought about this, staring at Pylon eventually nodded okay, flipped him the key.

  ‘He’s accepting half?’ said Mace.

  ‘It gets us the key,’ said Pylon, standing, the two of them moving away. ‘The rest when we collect.’

  ‘Non-negotiable,’ said the Rasta in English, back at his stirring, ignoring Mace and Pylon stopped in their tracks, gazing at him.

  Pylon clucked his tongue, muttered, ‘Bloody pothead.’

  The crates were stacked at the back of an empty container. They levered off the lids with a crowbar borrowed from the Rasta, revealing the hardware carefully packed in blankets. Enough blankets to excite a charity. Pylon took out a nine mil, said, ‘Look at this. When last did you see one of these?’

  ‘Nice gun,’ said Mace, taking it from him, a Z-88, old police stock made to beat the international arms embargo. Better, he believed, than the Beretta 92 it was modelled on. As he racked it, his phone rang, the voice he connected to said, ‘This’s John Webster.’

  ‘That right?’ said Mace. ‘We were starting to wonder about you.’

  Webster ignored him. ‘The consignment’s ready?’

  Mace said, ‘I’m staring at it.’

  ‘Where’s this?’

  ‘In a safe place.’

  Webster didn’t answer, let the silence drag. Eventually said, ‘Someone’ll collect you this afternoon. Two-thirty, three at the hotel.’ He disconnected.

  Mace thumbed off his phone, said, ‘Ummm.’ Said, ‘Maybe we should take precautions.’ He put the Z-88 back into a crate, took out a nine mil Taurus. Pylon already had one in his hand, loading the clip from a box in the ammunition crate.

  On their way out Mace waved at the Rasta, ‘Cheers, and thanks for the fish.’

  37

  They’d been driving around all morning. Paulo hyper, stopping twice to ritz some powder. Talking a blue streak about a condo in Miami or settling in Hawaii somewhere with a sea view. Or scrub that, some Caribbean hideaway island, pelicans circling overhead, water so clear you could snorkel without a mask. All they’d need would be an inflatable to go out fishing on the reef, maybe scooters for transport into the nearest town.

  ‘The thing is,’ Paulo said, ‘to have low aspirations. I mean not want the big-ticket numbers: no flash. Choose a good lifestyle. Then the money’s gonna last and nobody’s gonna be stressed out having to work again at any sorta job. That’s what I don’t wanna do, work again. I wanna wake up each morning thinking this is it, no problems. Money in the bank gently compounding. Nothing I have to do today but swim, maybe drift over to the reef in the Zodiac, dive some lobster. Lunch time take my usual stool at the Oyster Pond, eat some seafood, drink some beers, talk to the tourists. Laze through the afternoon trying to work out where to eat, like at the Orient again, or the Rouge this time or Captain Oliver’s Restaurant.’

  They’d driven round the glitz strip, Sea Point, Clifton, Camps Bay, come back over the Nek, Paulo saying why return to the apartment on a day like this, taking De Waal down the peninsula through Newlands Forest, Cecelia Forest, across Constantia through the vineyards up and over the mountain till coming down into Sun Valley Vittoria said, ‘I’ve gotta eat, Paulo. It’s one o’clock. I’ve gotta eat’ - and Paulo had swung into Longbeach Mall saying, ‘A Wimpy should do,’ finding a parking space right at the entrance, the car-guard giving him a slip of paper that said Amos was pleased to watch his car, have a nice day.

  Taking the card, Paulo said, ‘The thing I’m not gonna miss about this place is you guys.’

  The Wimpy was loud with kids and grandparents but a granny leaving with two brats freed up a cubicle in the window for Paulo and Vittoria - a view of the parking lot and the mountains beyond. A waitress took their order for all-day breakfasts and fast coffees.

  Vittoria stared out at the fat people wheeling trolley loads of groceries to their cars. Could be a home-mall if you blinked, everyone as badly dressed. ‘I’m not sure I want that,’ she said. ‘The paradise island.’

  ‘Babe. We try it, you’ll like it. Trust me.’

  The coffees came, he finished his before she’d had a sip, still selling her the Caribbean idyll.

  ‘The way I look at it,’ Vittoria said, ‘this is a start.’

  Paulo shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s the point. Keep off the greed. The greed’s what kills people.’

  The waitress put two full-house plates on the table: bacon, sausages, eggs sunny side up, French fries, fried tomato, two slices of white bread toast. Filled up their coffees. ‘Anything else?’

  Paulo said, ‘This is good.’

  They ate in silence, Vittoria relishing each mouthful, Paulo getting through an egg and a slice of toast.

  ‘If you’re not eating it, I’ll have your bacon,’ said Vittoria, heisting the rashers from his plate. ‘So what’s the plan, tomorrow?’

  Paulo said, ‘Shit that reminds me’ - taking out Isabella’s cellphone - ‘I better keep her lover smiling, after all the messages he’s left.’

  SMSed: ‘Hold tight, babe, talk to you soon.’ Repeated it to Vittoria.

  ‘That’s gonna please him?’

  ‘Sounds to me like what Isabella would say.’

  ‘She’d call him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this time she hasn’t.’ He pressed send.

  Vittoria clattered her knife and fork on the empty plate. ‘Breakfast for lunch is as good as breakfast at breakfast.’ She wiped her mouth. ‘Still haven’t told me what the plan is.’

  ‘Simple. We meet. They give us the diamonds, we cut them their share. Adios amigos.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Sure. Where’s the hitch?’

  ‘No Isabella. No Ludo.’

  ‘Tonight she’s going to send him a message, she’s at the airport on standby, got to fly home urgently, Paulo’ll take care of everything. Talk tomorrow.’

  ‘He’ll buy that?’

  ‘Can’t see why not. Shit happens all the time.’

  38

  Two-thirty came, two-thirty went. Three came and went. Mace and Pylon were sitting on the hotel terrace under an umbrella watching two women in thong bikinis drifting about the pool on lilos, their shapely bodies some distraction in the heat. Mace had tried phoning Isabella after her SMS, got her voicemail again. Even put through a call to Francisco in New York, got his voicemail.

  Pylon said, ‘This is wrong.’

  Mace said, ‘Give it time.’

  ‘Why’s she not talking to you?’

  Mace held up his hands. ‘A message is fine.’

  At c
lose to half past three the waiter José brought them a slip of hotel notepaper with an address. Said the man on the phone said they must get a taxi.

  ‘What’d I say,’ said Pylon. ‘Mr Webster’s pulling the moves.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Mace, patting the bulge of the nine on his hip. ‘We’ve got our own moves.’

  They found Joao playing cards with the other drivers on the street outside the hotel. Pylon waved him over, showed him the address, and Joao smiled, told him big houses, swimming pools, rich people, government people.

  The house was Italianate. Double storey. Columns. Balconies. Shutters on the windows, marble porch. Stucco walls. Dark-stained woodwork. A black Mercedes Benz on the circular drive.

  ‘Politico,’ said Joao.

  Mace eased out of the bucket-seat onto the gravel. Saw a couple of teenage girls playing tennis on a clay court. An umbrella and loungers at the pool, empty glasses on the table.

  He said, ‘You didn’t know this was Luanda, you wouldn’t know this was Luanda. You’d think posh Santiago, Singapore, Cape Town. You wouldn’t think there was a war on. Not with so many trees.’

  Pylon paid off Joao, told him if they needed collecting they’d phone the hotel. Joao protested no he had a cellphone, they could phone him direct, bringing out a blue Nokia to prove it. Pylon entered the number, then he and Mace crunched up to the wide-open front door and pressed the bell, could hear it ringing in two different places. But the buzzing brought no reaction. The only sound in the house a soccer match on television.

  ‘They aren’t about to hear above that,’ said Pylon, pressing the buzzer again.

  Through the hall Mace could see glass doors giving onto a lawn mown in neat stripes. Some peacocks wandering on it, dragging their tails. Pylon gave the bell another long session. Again the two men waited, Pylon reading off the seconds: thirty seconds, one minute, minute and a half, said, ‘Shit, this’s ridiculous.’

  Above them a voice said, ‘Welcome to my house, gentlemen, sorry that you are kept waiting. Tão, please to come in and up the stair.’

  Standing at the top of the stairs was a moon-faced man, thick-necked, the flesh bulging over his collar. A short dumpy man in a pale blue shirt, the white collar fastened with a tie. He flashed them a smile of bright teeth. ‘Bom, I am Dr Kiambu. Tão, please. Join with me.’

  On the landing he shook their hands. ‘You enjoy soccer, gentlemen?’ A Portuguese accent tingeing his English.

  Mace and Pylon nodded. ‘I am afraid the match is almost full-time, but come. Manchester United against Spurs. This is what I would call a mid-period time for Gascoigne at the end of the season of 1989-90. You like soccer?’

  He took them into a long dim room, the shutters up, a wall of bookcases, on the other walls paintings in ornate gold frames of Portuguese sailing ships and peasants tilling fields. Persians on the parquet flooring. What was missing, Mace thought, was a suit of armour. At the one end a desk, at the other leather armchairs facing a television screen. The only light from the television, a man’s head silhouetted against it. On screen a moment of tension: Manchester taking a corner. The ball goes up, is intercepted, kicked away mid-field.

  ‘Frigging useless,’ said the man in the armchair, half-turning towards the group behind him.

  ‘Tão please,’ said Dr Kiambu, ‘let me introduce you to John Webster.’

  John Webster came off the chair sideways like a hunting spider. A thin-lipped thin man in jeans and a green open-necked shirt worn loose Madiba-style. Mace took one look at him and didn’t like him. Didn’t like freckled faces, ginger hair, in tight waves close to the scalp.

  They shook hands, Webster putting more clinch into it than necessary. Mace held the grip, caught the devil in the man’s eyes, mocking him.

  ‘Everything in order?’ Webster said, no niceties, his thin lips pulled into a sneer.

  ‘No reason it shouldn’t be,’ said Mace, jerking free his hand.

  Webster kept his smirk. ‘Good, then let’s see what the frig you’ve brought us.’

  ‘Us?’ said Pylon. ‘You’re the diamond checker, right?’

  ‘Good gentlemen,’ said Kiambu. ‘Tão please. My friend John checks diamonds for you, and weapons for me. Is there a problem?’ He laid a podgy hand on Webster’s arm, glanced from Pylon to Mace.

  ‘This isn’t how we expected it,’ said Mace.

  Dr Kiambu beamed. ‘Come please Mr Bishop. In Angola certain skills are in what we call short supply. We must fix our arrangements in the best way we can. Mr Webster is a professional. He can make these judgements without compromise. Surely? Or your Ms Medicis would not have sought him out to advise you.’ He picked up a remote, switched off the television set. ‘Tão, we go to business. I would be happy if Mr Buso comes with me. Mr Bishop, perhaps you will accompany with John, yes? Afterwards we can place you at your hotel, no problem.’

  Mace caught Pylon’s eye, saw there the same unease he felt. He frowned, but said nothing as Kiambu ushered them down the stairs.

  In the driveway the black Mercedes had been joined by a second. The chauffeurs were big men, wore guns holstered on their belts.

  ‘Where to?’ said Webster.

  ‘The harbour.’ Mace slipped into the back seat, smelling new leather.

  ‘Where the frig else.’ Webster slammed Mace’s door closed, got in the front. ‘Let me guess, huh.’ He leered round at Mace. ‘You’re storing in the Rasta’s compound.’ Webster laughed. ‘Amazing.’ Gave directions to the driver in Portuguese. ‘I heard tell you once were major traders. That right?’

  Mace didn’t respond.

  ‘I’d have thought you might have made other arrangements. Not left enough hardware to stage a frigging coup lying in the hands of a mushbrain so that every nignog with his mother’s AK could pop round to liberate it.’ He gave his thin-lipped sneer. ‘Get my meaning?’

  Mace stared at him until Webster turned away, grunting, ‘Frigging arsehole.’

  Mace leant forward, whispered in Webster’s ear. ‘I wouldn’t push it any further, okay.’

  ‘I’ll push it any frigging way I want,’ said Webster.

  Mace sat back, smiled at the driver’s eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror. Heard Webster put through a brief cellphone call in Portuguese.

  * * *

  The Mercs stopped at the gates to the compound, the Rasta sitting in the shade watching them get out. The drivers yelled at him to open up and he sauntered over, no servility in his manner, taking his time unlocking the chains. Mace noted the Argentinian had sailed, only the old tanker moored against the wharf. By the state of it had been moored there a long time. As he turned away he glimpsed two men come out on the upper deck and wave down at them. He raised a hand in greeting. Second to the Rasta’s job, securing a rusting hulk in a wrecked harbour had to be the pits. They had his sympathy. He went through the security gates and joined Dr Kiambu while Pylon unlocked the container.

  Kiambu stepped inside, mopping at the perspiration on his face with a handkerchief. ‘Tão please tell me, this is everything we requested?’

  The firing started before either Mace or Pylon could answer, the bullets slamming loud against the steel container. Mace spun, grabbed the door to pull it closed as Webster scooted in. Saw one driver running off, the other crouched behind the Merc. No sign of the Rasta. The volley ceased, a couple of single shots then quiet.

  ‘How many?’ said Pylon.

  ‘Two for sure.’ Mace eased the door open to widen the line of sight. The driver was where he’d been, a pistol in his hand.

  Webster called to him and the guy raised his head and may have said something but the shooting came again. Webster cursed, said, ‘Where’s that Rasta? This’s gotta be his setup.’

  In the quiet Mace could hear someone whistling. ‘Why’s that?’ he said, pushing the door open a crack to let in light.

  Webster came round on him. ‘What d’you think this is about, frigger? This’s about guns ‘n diamonds and about arseholes w
ho waltz in here like it’s a picnic.’

  ‘The Rasta’s gone,’ said Pylon. ‘So’s the driver now.’

  Webster snorted. ‘Frigging likely.’

  ‘See for yourself.’ Pylon stood back from the door. ‘See him run.’

  Webster looked. ‘Arsehole.’

  ‘Please,’ said Kiambu, ‘it could also be that I am the target. Before they have tried to kidnap me for a ransom.’

  Mace said, ‘What makes you so precious?’

  ‘He’s a frigging cabinet minister.’ Webster flicked a cigarette from a pack. ‘Jesus. Who’re you guys?’

  ‘I am minister for transport,’ said Kiambu. ‘In our politics there is great suspicion. Everyone is watching his back.’

  Pylon shook his head. ‘Unlikely this is about you. How was anyone gonna know you’d be here?’

  Kiambu smiled. ‘In Luanda they say there are no secrets. Everywhere there are spies finding out all the business. It could be that someone has heard about these’ - he pointed at the crates - ‘and so they think they can make a nice killing.’ He kept his smile. ‘That is what you say in English, sim?’ Sweat stained Kiambu’s shirt, dark spots where the material pulled across his breasts and under his armpits. He dabbed at his face. ‘What do you think, John? Should we call for some help? Tamoda, maybe.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the bastard just rush to help you.’

  ‘Then Xitu.’

  ‘Ha, Xitu. Xitu would love this.’

  Kiambu sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Face it, doctor. You’ve got no leverage there.’ Webster stood at the half-open door, blowing exhale out the corner of his mouth. He held the cigarette cupped into his hand.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a mess, is what I think. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. We’re stuck in this shit-pit.’