by Mike Nicol
He sighed, said aloud, ‘You’re getting past it, Mace. These are an old man’s thoughts’ - and flicked the unlock on his cellphone. He thumbed to the call register.
A missed call from Francisco. At international rates not worth a call back.
A missed call from Mo Siq. Ditto. Let alone that Mo wouldn’t appreciate being woken at what would be going one a.m.
A missed call from Captain Gonsalves. Nothing there, Mace reckoned that couldn’t be dealt with back home. Probably to tell him they’d arrested the woman.
Nothing from Isabella which puzzled and disappointed him. Usually she’d have rung back. Especially given the urgency of his messages.
In the inbox a message from Oumou: ‘Let me know you’re okay.’ He replied straight off: ‘Everything fine. See you tomorrow afternoon.’
And one from Isabella. ‘After standby for two hours now on the New York flight. Had to go urgently. Paulo will contact you. Talk to you soonest. Love you babe.’
Love you babe!
In all this time she’d never said anything like that, let alone written it. Getting soft with the years. He smiled. Sentimentality got even the hard cases. He keyed in a message: ‘Webster pulled a move. His last one. Trust the diamonds are what they’re supposed to be.’ The moment she switched her phone on and that came through, she’d be dialling him. With a bit of luck he wouldn’t be in the air.
Mace finished the beer and stretched out on the bed. He closed his eyes, fell asleep in his clothes, the light on.
His phone woke him at seven-thirty. He came up groggy, for a moment unsure where he was. Light and heat flooded the room. Mace groped for the phone vibrating across the bedside table, in the movement caught the reek of sweat from his clothes and grimaced. Saw the cluster of diamonds he’d heaped into an ashtray, the empty beer bottle. Gonsalves’ name on the screen.
‘Captain,’ he said, his voice croaky, his mouth dry and sour. He swung his legs off the bed and sat upright. Again the sweaty release of his body odour.
‘I left a message,’ said Gonsalves. ‘I expect you’d have got to it one day.’
‘It’s seven-thirty. You woke me.’
‘Eight-thirty.’ Gonsalves paused. ‘Monday morning. Everybody’s on the job, hangover or not. You got a hangover, Mr Bishop?’
Mace wiped his hand over his face, his skin bristly, sticky with perspiration. ‘I’m in Luanda,’ he said. ‘But don’t let it bother you.’
‘I won’t. Luanda, hey. Nice place before the war. I had family there. Even spent a Christmas with them, 1969 or ’70, long before the shit started. From what I hear it’s buggered now.’
‘Totally.’
‘Ja, well, what can you say?’
Mace said nothing.
Gonsalves said, ‘The reason I phoned is we have two bodies found on the Atlantis dunes. No ID. One male. One female. Male’s about two metres tall, eighty-five kilos, thin sandy hair going grey, mid-fifties probably.’
Mace thought, why’re you telling me? Started to say, ‘What’s this got …’ but Gonsalves talked him down.
‘Give me a minute, okay? Just listen. Female about one eight, say weighing sixty, sixty-five kilos, hair dark, styled in what they call a bob, I would guess about ten years younger. Male’s dressed okay but nothing special. Female’s more classy. Expensive-looking clothes. Male shot in the chest. Female shot in the head between the eyes. Female dead about fifteen hours before the male.’
Mace said, ‘Shot in the head?’
Gonsalves said, ‘Ah, the man’s not so babalaas. My thoughts too, Mr Bishop. Where’d I seen this type of shooting before? I asked myself.’
‘You’ve got the chick?’
‘Negative, no. She’s gone. Vanished without trace. What we got at the Llandudno place was sweet fanny. Everybody done a runner.’ He paused and Mace heard paper tearing. ‘Why I’m ringing you specifically is because near the twosome in the dunes we found a cellphone. Only local number in it is yours. This one I’m phoning. Could be clients of yours? What I’m gonna do is phone you, see if you recognise the name.’
He disconnected. While he waited Mace thought, unlikely it was a client, even if the profile fitted maybe two couples on their books. Except on both counts the men were snazzy dressers.
His phone rang. Number restricted on the screen. He thumbed it on, told Gonsalves this wasn’t going anywhere.
‘How about coming round to confirm?’ said the captain.
‘That’s all I need.’ Mace stood up to stretch his back.
‘When’re you back?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he lied.
‘Give me a call,’ said Gonsalves.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Mace, as he put down the cellphone and headed for the bathroom and a long shower. Supposing there was long water. Afterwards he checked on his clients. No one missing.
At breakfast he raised the idea with Pylon of giving Gonsalves the chick’s whereabouts after they’d done the deal with Paulo.
‘Ten to one she’s with him. Right?’
Pylon nodded.
‘All we do is follow him home afterwards. We phone Gonsalves, the cops call round and get her. Get him too on suspicion.’
‘And turn up a parcel of diamonds meant for your Isabella.’
‘There’re ways round that?’
‘Gonsalves?’
‘A pension contribution.’
Pylon spread margarine on his toast, toast thin and dry that cracked into pieces under his knife. He looked at Mace in exasperation. ‘How do they do this? Why can’t they make toast that’s like toast? You know, warm bread lightly browned both sides.’
Mace ignored him. ‘So where does the exchange happen? Our offices? Mo’s place? Somewhere neutral?’ Thinking, not Mo’s place if Sheemina February was on his case.
‘Like hire a room?’ Pylon crunched down on the toast. ‘Our offices are fine.’
Mace SMS’d Paulo the address and time. Copied it to Mo Siq. ‘Now all we need is your cousin AC.’
Pylon wiped crumbs from his fingers, pulled out his cellphone. ‘Toast is so easy. The toaster we’ve got now, in six months there’s not one piece I’ve had to scrape off the charred stuff. I hate that, when it burns. A slice burns, you get the taste goes right through the toast. I’d throw that away. Not Treasure. No. That’s wasting. There’re kids would die for a piece of burnt toast, so you’ve got to scrape it off and eat it. May as well toast cardboard.’ He thumbed an SMS into his phone. Pressed send. ‘So now, with the new toaster, you can’t burn the toast. Even if you forget it’s on, it pops up.’ He smeared margarine on another piece. Bit into it and choked.
‘Come,’ said Mace, thumping his partner on the back, ‘let’s go, we’ve got a plane to catch.’
41
With the last rays of the afternoon at the window and the aircon up high, they sat round the table in what Mace and Pylon grandly called their boardroom, the diamonds in the centre, refracting sunlight against the dark wood. Mo Siq, AC Mkize, and Mace and Pylon waiting on Paulo.
AC was impressed with the diamonds.
‘Tell me again. You walked in with these in your pockets. Through Customs?’
Mace grinned. ‘Who’s to guess? No one even checked the baggage.’
AC laughed. More relaxed than the last time Mace had seen him. Not suited, drinking a beer from the bottle. He and Mo reminiscing about some deal they’d done in Luanda at a dinner party to fund the war effort.
Mo saying, ‘There we were in penguin suits, Stones and me, at this huge colonial house modelled on some Lisbon mansion that the minister of defence had moved into after the owners left for Portugal, and there’s maybe fifty people at the do, seated at tables on the back patio and at our table this Cuban colonel’s all over the wife of the minister of defence, in front of the minister of defence. Which was embarrassing,’ Mo said, ‘except the minister of defence’s not getting fraught and his wife’s touching the colonel almost as much as he’s touching her.’
�
��Until they disappear,’ said AC. ‘One minute they’re there, the next they’re gone. At which point I look at Mo and he nods towards the minister of defence who’s rising from his seat, not in much of a hurry, keeping on a conversation with his neighbour, smiling like there was no problem in the world.’
‘We watched him walk out,’ said Mo, ‘but as we’d not seen which direction the colonel and the minister’s wife had taken, who could tell what was going on? And Stones is other side of the table so I can’t be too blatant.’
‘Probably he wasn’t gone more than five minutes,’ said AC, ‘when he comes back and sits down, not a problem in the world.’
‘And five minutes later the colonel returns not looking quite as happy as when he went out,’ Mo said.
‘The next thing I noticed,’ said AC, ‘was that the minister’s wife is sitting at another table talking to another Cuban officer. Now she’s got on a different dress, different jewellery, maybe her hair was even done in a new style. The colonel can’t stop looking at her but she has her attention on the colonel’s colleague. Eventually the colonel at our table is so embarrassed he leaves the party. The next morning,’ said AC, ‘we heard the Cubans were sending in troops, vehicles, jet fighters to stop the Boer army from invading. What we never established was what part the minister of defence’s wife played in the alliance.’
After the laughter AC said, ‘This is a good pile’ - sorting through the diamonds, picking out ones for a special examination under his eyeglass. Mace explained how the deal had to be divided and AC began shifting the diamonds into three groups, asking Mace could he tell him anything of their provenance?
‘Nothing,’ said Mace. ‘There was a guy called John Webster involved. But that’s all we know.’
‘Oh yes,’ said AC, glancing up. ‘A big fish. Major IDB player.’
‘Was,’ said Pylon.
‘Was?’ AC shifted his gaze from Pylon to Mace, back to Pylon, slow, half-hooded eyes. ‘Interesting. You want to tell me more?’
‘Not really,’ said Pylon.
AC laughed. ‘I’m curious that’s all.’
‘Situations change,’ said Pylon.
The doorbell rang. Mace said, ‘Our man Paulo.’
He brought in Paulo, Paulo stopping abruptly at the sight of three men staring at him. ‘Go in,’ said Mace. ‘You’re among friends’ - introducing Mo Siq and explaining AC Mkize’s part.
‘It’s all divided up there on the table,’ said Mace, pointing at the piles. ‘The big one’s how much you owe Mo. The small one’s how much you owe Pylon and me, the other belongs to Francisco. According to AC that’s worth a good few dollars. And that small stone is his commission. Out of your heap.’
‘And I’ve gotta trust you?’
Mace shrugged. ‘Isabella does.’ He went over to the drinks’ cabinet. ‘What’s your fancy?’
‘I won’t,’ said Paulo. ‘Thank you.’
‘You should,’ said Pylon. ‘Considering what we did to get this for you. A toast’s the least you could share with us.’
Paulo hesitated, moving to gather up the diamonds. Pylon restrained him.
‘Let them lie. A toast first.’
Paulo shook him off. ‘What’s with you guys?’
‘Part of the way we do business.’
‘Like this,’ said Paulo, indicating the cut on his cheek, his split lip, the three-day-old wounds still red and crusted.
‘Nasty,’ said Mace. ‘But not like that, no. Whisky doesn’t have the same effect. Nor beer.’ He poured Paulo a shot of whisky without waiting to hear what he wanted. ‘Here. You’ll like it.’
Paulo took it, not looking happy, frowning at the amber liquid in the glass.
‘These are very good diamonds,’ said AC. ‘You should be happy.’
‘I’m happy,’ said Mo.
‘So’re we,’ said Pylon.
Mace said, ‘Give us the toast then, Paulo?’
Paulo shifted from foot to foot, keeping his gaze focused on the diamonds, avoiding any eye contact with the men standing round the table. They waited. Watching him, expectant. Paulo flushed, couldn’t get to something witty. Something with a double meaning. Ended up with: ‘Okay, here’s to having pulled it off.’
Mace clipped bottles with Pylon. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Paulo smirked, holding out his glass for everyone to tap it. He took the single malt in a swallow. ‘I’m outta here, guys,’ he said, scooping his pile of diamonds and this time no one persuaded him otherwise.
‘Treat them carefully,’ said AC, ‘that’s serious value you’re carrying.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Paulo, backing out, Mace and Pylon seeing him to the door. A taxi waited outside.
‘Give my best to Francisco,’ said Mace.
Paulo nodded from the backseat, that smirk writ large across his face.
‘Makes you want to smash in his dial,’ said Pylon as the taxi pulled out of Dunkley Square down Barnet Street.
‘Not sure there’ll be an opportunity if you don’t get after them,’ said Mace, although Pylon was already unlocking the white Toyota parked at the curb. As he eased away the taxi reached the bottom of Barnet, turned left into Vrede Street.
‘Shouldn’t be too taxing,’ Mace called after him, Pylon giving him the thumbs down at the bad pun.
Mace smiled, went inside to join Mo and AC for another drink.
‘And Pylon?’ said Mo.
‘Filling in the details,’ said Mace, ‘following our erstwhile associate to wherever he’s going.’
Mo said, ‘Problems?’
Mace brushed it aside. ‘No big deal.’
They weren’t finished their drinks, AC was on a story about how De Beers operators moved in what he called ‘the IDB environment’ when Pylon phoned that Paulo was paying off his taxi on the forecourt of the Table Bay Hotel. ‘Must be flush,’ he added before disconnecting.
AC picked up then on a story about how a diver in the restricted coastal zone used carrier pigeons to get out his illegals, those birds doing a round trip of near on three hundred kilometres with a halfway stop at a farm to lighten their payload. If a kid with an airgun hadn’t shot down a bird before it left the zone there was no telling how long the scam would’ve lasted.
‘Honest little bugger to report it,’ said Mo.
‘According to the diver, not all of it,’ said AC. ‘The parcel was supposed to be a six-pack, the bird was only carrying four when security got involved.’
Mace’s phone rang again. Pylon said, ‘I’ve lost him. He’s not booked in. Never has been. Not in his name at least, and no one knows the description.’
Mace thought, nice one. All Paulo had to do was walk through the hotel foyer out the other side into the Waterfront, get another taxi at one of the entrances.
‘Clever,’ said Mace, ‘we’ll have to rethink this.’ To Mo and AC he said, ‘Our bird’s flown the coop too.’ Put through a call to a contact at the airport but his birds weren’t listed on international flights. Didn’t mean they weren’t going under different names. Mace considered the possibilities, decided that given the hotel ruse, Paulo and Vittoria probably had another plan.
What Paulo did was walk through the hotel foyer and out the other side into the Waterfront. He took the first entrance into the shopping mall towards the Mugg & Bean where he’d met Isabella, thinking, Isabella if you could see me now, and fingered the diamonds in his pocket as he stepped onto the escalator down to the underground parking. Almost at the exit, Vittoria sat in their hired Merc. He could see her watching his approach in the rear-view mirror and did a dance step to amuse her. From where it was stuck in his belt under his shirt, Paulo tugged out Ludo’s pistol, wiped the grip with his shirt, dropped the gun in a wastebin. A present for some cleaner. What would he do with it? Hand it in to the cops? Sell it? Keep it? Paulo believed one of the last two options. He opened the passenger door.
‘They follow you to the hotel?’ said Vittoria as he got in.
‘No
idea,’ he said. ‘But if they did they’re gonna be really pissed’ - showing her a handful of diamonds. ‘Let’s go kiddo. We’re on safari.’
They drove to the airport, took a late domestic flight out of the city. In the air Vittoria leant across and kissed Paulo on the mouth. ‘You’ve got the style, babe.’
‘Sure have,’ he said.
They asked for two dinky bottles of sparkling wine from the stewardess and Paulo said, ‘I had to make a toast this evening for the diamonds. May as well drink to the same thing again.’
‘What’s that?’ said Vittoria.
‘To having pulled it off.’
42
Mace woke with Oumou’s hand on his stomach and turned towards her, reaching out to draw her closer, feeling her shift easily into his arms and come hard against him, thigh to thigh. Her lips sealed on his and his hand trailed down her back to the swell of her buttocks, resting there, his fingers pressing into the flesh. He hugged her fiercely, this woman who would look at him sometimes with sad eyes but never respond to his ‘What? What is it?’ except to maybe smile slightly as if she knew all about him. Everything he did. Everything he thought. Yet did not judge him. Her leg lifted over his thigh and he opened his eyes to find her watching him.