The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “Where can I take you, lady?” He asked, in a sing song lilt.

  “OR Tambo Airport, please.”

  Once they got out of the city centre, the traffic moved quickly and it took them only twenty minutes along Broadway Extension to get to the airport. Following Jenny’s instructions, they went to the arrivals level. The young driver didn’t stop talking from the moment they set off. He was interested in Emma; what she did, where she came from, was she married, did she have children, what was she doing in Joburg? He should be working for Nwosu, she reflected. He knows how to interrogate someone.

  She said as little as possible and paid him off with a small tip, not enough to make him suspicious. As soon as he’d driven off, again following her sister’s instructions, Emma went upstairs to the departures level and flagged down what looked like a vintage Mercedes with an older, sad looking black driver.

  He looked wearily at her and just nodded when she said, “Wonderboom Airport, please.”

  The driver took the R21 north for about forty kilometres then turned onto the N1 to skirt Pretoria. As they were driving past Queenswood to the east of the city, Emma heard the sound of a siren coming up behind them. The driver looked in his rear view mirror and slowed down to the left side of the road. In the wing mirror she could see a police car approaching, siren blaring and lights flashing. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Nwosu’s found me. Somehow he’s followed my trail. Dear God, what’s going to happen to Leo and me now?

  The police car flashed past them and the driver pulled back onto the road and resumed his cruising speed. Emma’s eyes were closed as she tried to pull herself together. It’s not far now, I can make it, she said to herself, steeling her nerves.

  It was just after five thirty when they pulled up alongside the main terminal building at Wonderboom. A sign on the wall outside the door said, MyJet Aviation, First Floor. Emma paid the driver from her fast depleting bunch of rand notes and walked nervously up the stairs.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Mrs Stewart,” she announced to the young blonde woman behind the desk.

  “How do you do, Mrs Stewart. We’ve been expecting you. My name’s Alison. Please sit down and I’ll bring the forms over to you. Would you like a coffee?”

  Diepkloof, South Africa

  Coetzee was in Nwosu’s office. They were arguing about Jacob Masuku, when they got the call from the first taxi driver. Nwosu went berserk, screaming at the man until he switched off his phone. It wasn’t his fault if some woman decided she didn’t want to go to the police station. He went home to watch the TV.

  “That bitch, Stewart. She’s been playing us along. We’ve had her in here twice and she’s told us nothing and now she’s on the run.”

  “Well don’t stand there screaming and shouting. Get your bloody police force out looking for her.” Coetzee was becoming tired of Nwosu. He was the antithesis of the security chief. Taller, better looking, smartly turned out and a great charmer. But all he really knew how to do was clean up after he’d messed up. What they used to call a ‘wet work’ guy in the SA Special Forces, where Coetzee had spent almost fifteen years before going private. “Get them onto the airports, the bus and train stations, hotels, B&Bs, every place she could possibly have gone or be hiding in. She’s only had fifteen minutes and she doesn’t know anyone, so she can’t be far. Get the passport photo out there. Someone’s bound to see her.”

  “I don’t understand this,” said Nwosu as he prepared an email with Emma’s photo and a brief, fictitious account of Emma Stewart, drug dealer on the run, to be captured and brought to Diepkloof without harm. “Why would she run away when she doesn’t know where the kid is? She’s genuinely worried about him, but for some reason she decides to piss off without him. It doesn’t add up. Unless she’s on to us, but I don’t see how.”

  “Women do strange things.” Coetzee took a drag on his cheroot. “That’s why I don’t get involved any more. You look after them for years, take them on holidays, buy them a nice house, give them kids. Then they start acting strange, blaming you for everything, like you’ve stolen their lives. And then it’s over. You don’t know why, twenty years of your life and it’s over. They’ve gone, they’re not coming back and you’re screwed.”

  Nwosu looked up from his PC but said nothing. He stored this information in his memory, just like he stored everything he saw and heard. It might be worth something one day, to know what had happened to Coetzee, how his wife had apparently walked out on him. It might be valuable, provide leverage, who knows?

  “Right,” he said. “These messages will be out on the street in five minutes. Where do you think she’s gone, and why?”

  “My bet? She said her tickets are non-flexible and she’s got no money. I’d say she’s somewhere in hiding, waiting for her flight on Wednesday. She doesn’t know anyone, so she’ll be looking for a cheap hotel. So I’d put money on her being somewhere near the airport. She probably went through the mall to the north exit and found the nearest taxi rank. You should get somebody to check with the drivers there. Maybe someone took her to the airport. That’ll limit the search area.”

  “Good thinking,” Nwosu begrudgingly complimented the other man. “I’ll circulate the dispatchers and get the Mayfair cops to check the taxi ranks around the shopping centre.” He made a couple of phone calls, then turned back to Coetzee. “What are we going to tell the Voice?”

  “Nothing, for now. It’s late in the afternoon and he’s not going to call again today. If we find her by the morning, there won’t be anything to tell him anyway.” He stood up. “I’m going, there’s nothing I can do here. Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone.”

  Nwosu watched him walk along the corridor. Arrogant swine, he thought. Masuku won’t be the only casualty in this business. All in good time.

  FOURTEEN

  Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa

  The young Indian taxi driver called as soon as he returned to the rank and saw the notice posted by the phone booth. After he’d convinced the operator that he had important information concerning Mrs Stewart, he was put through to Sergeant Nwosu.

  “How can you be sure it was her?” The policeman didn’t want another embarrassing fiasco. There had been too many of them already.

  “It was an English lady, about forty, right? She had a kind of accent, but definitely UK. Dark hair, pretty, in a safari jacket. First visit to Joburg. She didn’t say much but I recognised the photo immediately. I picked her up from my rank beside the city library.”

  I should hire him for the force, Nwosu mused, echoing Emma’s thought. “That’s her. Where did you drop her off?

  “OR Tambo Airport. Arrivals level.”

  “Arrivals? Are you sure?” The policeman was put off balance. Why would she go to the arrivals when she was trying to escape? “Did she have a bag?”

  “I dropped her at the arrivals and she just had one of those shoulder bags. Looked like a computer bag.”

  “What time?”

  “Four thirty.”

  Nwosu rang off and called the police station at the airport. We’ll get her, he smiled to himself. He didn’t call Coetzee. He’d been right and Nwosu didn’t like it.

  The security chief was sitting smoking in his office at the stadium. He was reflecting on the mess he’d gotten himself into. He’d gone along with the kidnapping only for the money. The divorce had been an expensive business and he still had his daughter’s education to pay for. And the security business wasn’t as lucrative as he’d anticipated. Mainly because he was a lousy business man. He wasn’t tough enough in negotiations. He didn’t like to nickel and dime or hire a lawyer to write his contracts. This World Cup deal was actually going to cost him money. He’d completely screwed up on the cost calculations, so his pension savings were going to take another hit.

  The whole business with Leo and Emma was starting to weigh on his mind. Nwosu was obviously a villain through and through and the kid was just a pawn in a scheme orchestrated by people they did
n’t even know, using them to make money, a lot of money, he imagined. He knew Emma must be going through Hell and he could almost feel her pain. But he also knew that professional kidnappers didn’t usually kill their victims. They delivered them against cash, or whatever else they were doing it for. If I’m going through with this, he decided, I want more than the measly amount they’ve offered so far. This deal has to make a difference in my life, a big difference. I’ll protect the asset and I’ll deliver him safe and sound but I’ll make sure I get properly paid for it. The kid was young and healthy and he would make sure he survived the incident with nothing worse than bad memories, whatever happened to anyone else.

  Even during his time with the Special Forces, Coetzee had never been keen on killing. He’d always tried to make sure someone else was doing the wet work. On the few occasions he’d been obliged to take a life, he’d hated it. Hadn’t felt a thrill or a sense of satisfaction like many of his mates. He didn’t like it and when he’d left the forces to set up his security consulting firm, he’d vowed never to be involved in it again.

  But now he was back in the killing fields. The Voice had made it clear that anyone who got in the way of his plan would become ‘unavailable’. That pathological maniac Nwosu had already done away with Masuku and bragged about it to him that afternoon. He’d been graphic in his description of the murder, right down to the poor guy pissing in his pants. Then he’d boasted about Masuku’s widow’s premature departure from this life caused by an accident with scalding water in her shack. “Dangerous places, these shanty dwellings,” he’d laughed. “And if anyone does suspect foul play, they’ll assume Jacob killed her then went into hiding. What I would describe as the perfect murders.”

  Jesus Christ, Coetzee thought to himself, what a fucking sadist! And I’m stuck with him.

  Nwosu got the call from the airport police at six twenty. Emma Stewart had taken a taxi from the departures level at about four forty-five. The driver didn’t get the message until he was back because the police had only checked the arrivals rank and he’d switched his radio off since it was his last drive for the day. Nwosu hadn’t imagined that she might hail a taxi at departures. Coetzee would probably have worked that out, he thought, envying the man his thinking ability, but he said nothing. He was feeling foolish enough as it was.

  The driver said he’d driven her to the Pretoria airport at Wonderboom. He’d left her at the main terminal building and she’d gone inside to the MyJet Aviation office. Nwosu thought for a moment. If he called them, she might get wind of it and flee. Better to get the police in right away. He picked up the phone and called his opposite number in Wonderboom Poort station, using the drug dealer description. They could have a car there in ten minutes, the sergeant responded. Nwosu sat back, praying he wouldn’t have to tell the Voice they’d lost her.

  At six twenty-five, Emma walked out of the airport terminal in the company of Shane, a smart, good looking pilot and Tasha, his co-pilot. They were both Australian, apparently there were lots of Ozzie airline staff all over the world. Alison was their daughter and they were the owners of the little private jet hire company. Today, Alison would act as flight attendant and they were going to spend a few days on a family holiday in Mauritius. Not having travelled with an airline where you got to meet the pilot or the owner, Emma was suitably impressed.

  They were about to climb up into the plane when she heard Alison calling her. “Mrs Stewart. Can you come back for a moment? I think we have a problem.”

  A feeling of dread invaded Emma’s mind. I knew it was too easy, she told herself. They’ve managed to track me down. She turned to go back to the building.

  “We’ll prepare for take-off, Emma. Take your time,” Shane called, as he and his wife climbed the staircase.

  Alison was apologetic. “Mrs Stewart, I’ve just realised you don’t have a visa. I’m not sure you can fly without one. I’m sorry, but I’ve only been helping my parents for a few weeks over the holidays and I’m not really up on these things.”

  Emma had never felt so relieved. She thought quickly, “Let’s look it up on the web. It’s sure to tell us if UK citizens need a visa.”

  It took Alison a few minutes to locate the proper section of the site, only to find that she’d been wrong, English visitors didn’t need a visa. Emma breathed a sigh of relief and walked quickly back to the plane.

  At six thirty-five, a car from Wonderboom Poort screeched to a halt in front of the terminal building and two policemen ran up the stairs to the MyJet Aviation office. The door was locked and there was nobody there. A sign on the door said the place was closed for the rest of the week. They called Sergeant Nwosu, in Diepkloof, to report the news.

  Emma was already fast asleep in the most comfortable armchairbed she’d ever encountered, leaving South African air space on a Dassault Falcon 2000 twin engine jet, next stop, Mauritius. She was safely on her way to rescue her son.

  It was twenty-one hours since Leo had been taken.

  DAY THREE

  Tuesday, July 13, 2010

  FIFTEEN

  Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa

  Nwosu and Coetzee were arguing again in the policeman’s office. It was Tuesday morning and the news was not good. Nwosu was looking for somebody to blame before they received the call from the Voice. After learning that Emma had probably taken a private jet from Wonderboom, he’d requested the flight details from airport flight control. There were very few departures from the airport and the only MyJet Aviation flight at six-thirty had filed Mauritius as its destination. Subsequent enquiries showed a booking for Emma Stewart on an Air France flight to Paris at midnight. Calculating four and a half hours for the Mauritius sector, he assumed she had made the flight, so he asked further questions which revealed a booking for Malaga, also with Air France, on their Tuesday morning flight. Knowing Emma didn’t have money, he also discovered that the flights had been paid for with a Swiss credit card in the name of Jenny Bishop. Further investigation showed that this was Emma’s sister, who had a home in Marbella.

  “The bitch is in a plane on her way to her sister’s house in Spain now and we’re screwed. Why didn’t you work out that she wasn’t staying at the airport? It was too obvious, going there, and she wasn’t due to fly until tomorrow.”

  “Sergeant Nwosu, you didn’t even tell me she’d gone to the airport. If I’d known she got out at arrivals I might have been suspicious. But you didn’t tell me.” He looked sarcastically at the policeman. “I hope you’re not looking for a scapegoat. ‘cos I don’t do scapegoat.” He lit up a cheroot and went on, “You’re probably right. When she wouldn’t tell us anything, she must have already been plotting with her sister to get out, and now the bird has flown.”

  “These people you hired are all incompetent pricks. Lambert or the doctor or someone must have let the cat out of the bag and she’s caught on that the whole thing’s a set up. She’s a crime writer and she’s got plenty of imagination. The Voice isn’t going to be happy with you.”

  “We’re in this together Nwosu. If you remember, she cottoned on to you right away because you knew too much about her son. Not smart, was it?” He paused, enjoying the moment. “And neither Lambert nor the doctor was my choice, so don’t play pass the parcel with me, it could blow up in your face.

  “We’re not telling the Voice anything. We’re in enough trouble as it is. We’ve got to figure out what he wants to know, so we can work out why this kidnapping was ordered. It’s time we started asking the questions. We’ve taken all the risks for a few thousand dollars and he’s sitting there calling the shots.

  “Just ask yourself, why would he kidnap a schoolboy whose mother doesn’t have enough money to buy an airplane ticket? It doesn’t make any sense. There’s some bigger play here and we need to get to the bottom of it. I agreed to go into this for only one reason, money, and I’m not about to get short changed.”

  “Be careful what you say or do, Coetzee. Those guys are ruthless and I don’t want to
become their next problem.”

  The security chief laughed. “Sergeant Nwosu has spoken, eh? Well just think about this. Who wants the kid? They do. Who’s got the kid? We do. That boy is staying glued to my side until he gets handed over to his mother and we see the ransom money paid. We’re holding all the cards and if they want us to play the game that means a bigger payoff.”

  Nwosu nodded begrudgingly. “OK. I wouldn’t object to more money. You handle the conversation and we’ll see what happens.”

  Coetzee walked out to get a coffee, past the conference room where they’d interviewed Emma. He checked the laptop, the CD was still in the machine. He ejected it and slipped it into his pocket, just in case.

  Marbella, Spain

  Emma’s taxi turned right into the Las Manzanás Golf Course and drove past a security office towards Calle Venetia. The driver seemed to know the way. He drove around a high wall made of white stone and stopped at a pair of iron gates with CCTV cameras on each side. He was about to press an intercom button by a plaque that said, York House, when the gates slid back and he continued on into the property.

  Jenny was standing on a terrace at the top of the drive. It seemed like half a kilometre away. Wow! What a house! Emma thought, mentally comparing it to her two bedroomed apartment in Newcastle, on Quayside, by the river, with a partial view of the Tyne Bridge. Perfect for her and Leo, small, but cosy, but this was a property out of Hello Magazine.

  They drew up in front of the house and she climbed out into the arms of her sister, tears of relief in her eyes. “Welcome to York House, Emma. Oh, it’s so good to see you. You must be shattered. Just leave your bag with Juan and come in with me.” A balding man in a black tee shirt paid off the taxi driver then took her laptop bag from her. “Buenos Dias”, he said and she shook his hand.