Mpumalanga, South Africa
Leo was awakened by the sound of a car door being banged shut. He didn’t know it, but they were at the Kranskop toll plaza, about one hundred thirty-five kilometres north of Pretoria. Coetzee had dropped the coins for the toll machine onto the road and had to climb out to retrieve them. He blamed the nicotine withdrawal for giving him the shakes and making his fingers feel like sausages. He’d driven for the last two hours from Pretoria without saying a single word, the toll road through Mpumalanga slipping by in the darkening evening at one hundred twenty kilometres an hour. He didn’t want to get pulled over for speeding with an unconscious boy in the back of the car.
He was feeling more and more isolated the further from Joburg they drove as he worried about the situation he was in. Nwosu had brought his most charming personality with him, chatting away in a friendly, sarcastic manner with Blethin, making a new best friend. Coetzee knew he was being set up and he just had to wait it out. He wound the window up and pushed the gear lever into drive.
Now Leo could hear car klaxons hooting from behind and someone say, “Get a fucking move on Coetzee! You’ll have a mob of road-ragers after us if you don’t get moving.” Nwosu was enjoying the security chief ’s discomfort. He was in no hurry, biding his time until the right moment came. Then he would execute the Voice’s instructions and ensure they wouldn’t come looking for him when he went AWOL.
The car pulled away and Leo lay still, assessing his surroundings. He was lying on and under a blanket, obviously in the back of the car. It smelled clean, but there was a faint aroma of petrol fumes. He carefully pulled the blanket from over his head and looked around. It was pitch black, but he worked out that his body was in the boot and his legs were bent back and up around a flat seat. He was wearing a safari shirt and jeans, they fitted him, so probably his own clothes, he figured, but no socks or shoes. He could feel his bare feet against each other. His head was much clearer than the last time he’d been drugged and he wondered what time it was. He felt his wrist. Good! They’d replaced his watch. He put it right in front of his eyes, but couldn’t see the face. It had to be after five thirty, because he knew it got dark then.
He heard another voice, it was Coetzee, the security man, if that’s what he really was. “I’m going to come off the highway in Polokwane. That’s about another hour, so we should get there by seven. We can get something to eat then decide if we continue tonight or stay in a motel. I’m not keen on arriving at the Zimbabwe border at midnight.”
“Check on the boy, Blethin. He should be awake by now, unless you’ve killed the poor bastard. You’d better not have. His mother will be well pissed off with you if you do.” It was the first man’s voice again, laughing softly.
“I’ve been checking him regularly, Sergeant. I check the pulse on his ankle, since I can’t easily reach his wrist. It’s called the posterior tibial artery, if you want to know.” Leo recognised the doctor’s voice with its accent. He pulled the blanket over his head again and lay still. Blethin’s fingers pressed against the back of his bare ankle. “He’s got a perfectly regular pulse, you’ll be happy to learn. I must have given him a bigger dose than I thought though. I expected him to be awake by now.”
“Take the blanket off his face. He’ll suffocate if you don’t.” Blethin had placed the blanket over the boy’s head at each poll booth, in case the attendant looked into the car.
Leo lay still as the doctor leaned over the back seat and moved the blanket. His mind was reeling from what he’d overheard. He was on his way to Zimbabwe, which he knew was a vicious dictatorship to the north of South Africa and there was an officer of some kind in the car. A soldier, or a policeman? He wondered. Coetzee must be driving and the other man was the fake doctor who’d drugged him. From their voices he knew the first two were definitely South African but the doctor was European. Not English, but with an English way of speaking. What the hell was going on? Where was his mother? What’s happened to her? Why had these men kidnapped him to take him to Zimbabwe?
He tried to piece together the events of the last few days, struggling to understand the reason for this far-fetched scenario. The incident in the toilet was now clear in his memory. Lambert and Blethin had come over to speak to him as he waited for a free stall. The manager took him by the arms as he spoke to him about the game then Blethin pushed a needle into his upper arm. He was wearing only a tee shirt and the needle went straight into his triceps. Lambert held him as he struggled and the ‘doctor’ put his hand over his mouth. That was Sunday. He had a vague memory of the nurse waking him up in the hospital room. That must have been yesterday. Then before the last injection, Coetzee had said it was Wednesday morning and since then he’d probably slept for a few hours, so it must be Wednesday evening.
Now he was on the way to Zimbabwe and he had no idea how far it was or why they were taking him. He had to get away from them, get to a police station or a hospital. Some place where they could help him to get back to Johannesburg, back to his mother. She must be frantic with worry. That’s if nothing has happened to her. But from what the sergeant had said, she was OK. But where is she? The plane tickets were for today. She couldn’t have gone and left me behind. He felt a surge of anger at these bastards who had interrupted his holiday with her, a fabulous holiday that he knew had cost all her savings.
Strangely, he felt no fear of the men, only anger. They had taken a lot of care to keep him quiet and alive and there was a doctor to make sure he stayed that way. They haven’t even tied my hands or feet, he realised. I’m just a school kid who presents no danger to them. Well, we’ll see about that. They don’t seem to be the best of friends. Arguing all the time. I need to exploit that. Let’s see if there’s anything useful here.
It was dark and noisy in the back of the vehicle and he risked moving his left arm to search the space immediately around him. There were some bags and cases between his body and the tailgate door and two jerry cans against the rear wheel arch, which was where the smell of fuel came from. Stretching his arm behind his head he felt along the area between the wheel arch and the second row seat, the one he knew Blethin was in. His hand was obstructed by something on the side panel behind Blethin’s seat. He felt around it delicately with his fingers. It was a torch, fastened on clips onto the side panel. Carefully detaching it from the clips he brought his hand back in front of him under the blanket. The torch was quite large and heavy. He hefted it, gauging its use as a potential weapon. Feels good. Now I’m not just angry. I’m angry and armed.
He lay quietly and waited for the next stop, preparing his escape plan.
THIRTY-FIVE
Marbella, Spain
Espinoza was studying the list of possible suspects. The problem was that there were only two names on it:
Dr Antoine Constance,
Dr Tony Forrester.
It seemed they were the only people who could have known the circumstances of Leo’s birth. They knew that Constance had disappeared from view after leaving the Clinique Saint Christophe in Nice and flying to London. Espinoza had contacted the Home Office, but there was no trace of him in the UK. He had vanished and they had no idea of his whereabouts.
Emma had been shocked at Espinoza’s theory for the reason behind Leo’s abduction. Although she had called her sister out of desperation, she had no idea of the extent of her wealth and that it had to be the motive for the crime. She sat looking at the other two, a dazed expression on her face.
“How could anyone possibly know all these facts? Mutesi’s death and Leo’s birth, Galaganza’s death, our trip to South Africa and Jenny’s fortune. There’s no one who could have known all of this. It’s just not feasible.”
“We don’t know that, Emma. There are basically three events, or key facts, and what we are looking for is a link between them. This is like any other sequence of events, there are links that lead from one to the next. As a writer you know that however strange the links you invent appear to be, the truth will always
be stranger. In this case I think it has to be people; a person who knew one thing happened to meet someone who knew the next fact and so on.”
“But why kidnap Leo in the first place? Why didn’t they just kidnap me and blackmail Jenny? She’s the one with the money. Or they could have blackmailed me with a threat to reveal Leo’s illegal birth and I would have been just as desperate to pay for their silence.”
“We are dealing with clever people here. This was a much more sophisticated undertaking than a simple kidnapping. They used the knowledge they had to create a double threat to you. Both Leo’s life and your continued future together were threatened. Whichever way you turned the only solution was your sister. They knew this, but you didn’t. It was an inspired idea to contact her for help.”
“You’re forgetting another thing, Emma.” Jenny interjected. They might know a lot about us, but that can’t include our feelings for each other. We’ve hardly seen each other for years and for all they know I might not have agreed to help you. But by abducting Leo they made sure that I would, however dysfunctional our relationship might be. And you didn’t contact me to ask me for money. You had no idea of my situation until today. It confirms Pedro’s theory about the combination of factors being known to someone. Somehow they knew I had money and by taking Leo they forced you to ask for my help because you were stranded in South Africa with no one else to turn to.”
“My God, they really did their homework. They followed us into an inhospitable place then took my son away and forced me to look for the only solution that was available. I’m so sorry, Jenny. I got you involved in this whole horrible mess because there was no one else I could turn to.”
“Let’s concentrate on trying to find whoever knew all the facts and was in a position to exploit them with a fairly substantial investment. It’s just a business proposition; the reward is potentially large and someone has funded the business accordingly.”
“But I have no idea who could tick all those boxes. No idea at all.”
After another hour of fruitless discussion, Espinoza said, “I have to get back to Malaga now, but I’ll be here first thing in the morning. We must revisit everyone concerned in this business from the beginning. We know the motive now. We just have to work out the sequence of events, to see the plan, the opportunity, the execution. The link is there, hidden from us, but only until we find it.”
He was preparing to leave when his mobile rang again. He saw the number on the screen and looked at his watch. “It’s my Australian friend from Interpol,” he told them. “Hello, Mac. What are you doing up at this time of night? At your age you should be in bed by now.” He laughed at the response, then said, “Thanks for getting back so quickly.” He took his notebook and pen. “Fire away, I’m listening.”
After a few minutes, he looked at the women with a resigned expression. “Thanks, Mac. It’s not good news, but thanks anyway. Now get yourself to bed and sleep well.”
Espinoza put his phone back in his pocket. “I’m afraid it’s bad news. We are down to one suspect!”
“Why? What’s happened?” Emma looked at him apprehensively.
“I’ve just learned that Tony Forrester was killed in an aeroplane accident two years ago in Australia!”
Polokwane, Limpopo, South Africa
“There’s a drive-thru McDonalds on the corner of Grimm and Thabo Mbeki. I’m going to pull in there, get some food and we’ll talk about what we want to do.” As Coetzee announced his decision, Leo felt the car swing off the exit from the N1 onto Pi-6 Main Route to go through the Southern Gateway on the approach road into Polokwane Central. He had lain without moving for the last hour and was feeling stiff and sore. It was time to make a move. He stretched his body out and gave a loud yawn, waiting for a reaction.
“The kid’s awake. Put the light on.” Coetzee switched on the interior light and Blethin looked over the back seat. “How you feeling Leo?”
“I’m feeling like shit. What do you think? Where are we?”
“Here, take a drink.” Leo grabbed the bottle of water from his hand and swallowed thirstily. His mouth felt as dry as sandpaper.
“How does he look?” It was the sergeant’s voice.
“As well as can be expected. No signs of permanent damage that I can see.”
Leo noted how they talked about him in the third person. Just a harmless kid, he thought. Just wait. “I asked where we are.”
“We’re driving through South Africa. Near Polokwane.” Coetzee didn’t want to mention Zimbabwe, the kid might go berserk if he knew that was their destination.
“Why the hell are we driving through South Africa? Where’s my mother? She was supposed to meet me hours ago. Where is she?”
“There was a misunderstanding, Leo. She left first and we’re going to join her. We’ll be there shortly.” Coetzee wondered how long he could continue with the same bullshit, but he didn’t have a choice.
“There’s three of you in the car. Who’s the other guy?”
“I’m a police officer, Leo. I’m here for your safety and protection. To make sure nothing happens to you until we get you back to your mother.” Nwosu put on his most charming and convincing tone. “Don’t worry, you’re quite safe and everything is under my control.”
A police sergeant? Why the hell would a police sergeant be travelling with a couple of crooks who stick needles into people to drug and kidnap them? Leo didn’t reply. He knew the men were lying but he just had to bide his time until the right moment.
“Are you hungry?” Blethin asked. “We’re going to stop for Big Macs. You want one?”
Leo’s juices started flowing at the thought. He was ravenous. “OK. With double cheese, fries and a Coke.”
“We’ll be there in two minutes. Just take it easy and you can get out and stretch your legs.”
The men talked quietly amongst themselves so that he couldn’t hear what was being said. He squeezed the torch in his hand.
Marbella, Spain
“Apparently Forrester was with the Flying Doctors for three years then left them to start his own charter airline in Perth.”
It had taken Emma a lot of tears and some comforting from her sister to get over the shock of her ex-fiancé’s death and now the two women were sitting listening to the rest of Espinoza’s news.
“He built up a good operation, with three small jets flying business executives all over the country. It was called N-Jet, after his wife’s name, Nicole. She was the business manager and handled the administration and ran the office. In July 2008 his own aircraft was lost in a storm in the Indian Ocean on a flight from Perth to Hobart, in Tasmania. There was a co-pilot and a cabin attendant with two passengers on board, both senior executives in a major oil company. So there was an extensive search which went on for weeks but they never found the plane, nor any survivors.
Mac, my Interpol friend, tells me that the Indian Ocean at that point is an unpredictable stretch of water and a light plane coming down there would be quickly destroyed and swept away by the waves and currents. It’s also very deep, so it would be impossible to search for victims.
“Nicole Forrester closed down the business a few months later and petitioned the court to declare him dead. This is normal practice after such a high profile accident where the victims are quite clearly deceased. Tony was declared dead six months after the crash.” Espinoza sighed deeply. “This news means that his name disappears from our list and we need to seriously look for any other possible suspects.” He shook his head at the frustrating news.
“Do you know what happened to Nicole?” Emma asked.
“I have no idea, he didn’t say. I suppose she just got through it then started a new life as people do after such a tragedy.”
Jenny accompanied him to the door, trying to hide her disappointment. “I suppose there’s no question about Tony’s death?”
“I’m afraid not. Not just his death, but the four other occupants of the plane as well. In accidents like this, especially wh
ere executives of a large corporation are involved there are huge insurance implications, so the search would be well financed and well organised. Mac didn’t give me many details, but in such a tragedy there would be no chance of survivors.
“In any case I can’t reconcile him or anyone who could remotely be a possible suspect with the opportunity. There is a missing link, so it’s still very confusing. But at least I think we’ve got the motive established, as well as the local perpetrators, so tomorrow we just have to dig deeper.” He embraced her. “Good night, Jenny. Hasta mañana.”
It was seventy hours since Leo had been taken.
THIRTY-SIX
Polokwane, Limpopo, South Africa
“Feeling any better, Leo? Coetzee had ordered five hamburgers, figuring that the boy could probably eat two. It was eight thirty and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe I can curry a little favour with him, he thought. I’m going to need it.
“I’m still feeling like shit. Not hungry any more, but I feel awfully tired.” Leo had decided to wait before making a move until after he’d eaten. He remembered what an ex-army officer had said in a survival lecture to his class at Newcastle Royal Grammar School. Eat whenever you get the chance. It may be the last chance you get. If he somehow managed to get away it was better to do it on a full stomach. He felt much better, but he wasn’t about to show it.
He was sitting on the tailgate of the Land Cruiser eating the last of the fries. The car was parked on the outskirts of the town in a large field of sandy hardpan surrounded by a boxwood hedge. Blethin was sitting alongside him and the other two in the front. It was pitch black outside, the only light coming from the open doors of the vehicle. There was a steady hum of traffic from the nearby highway, but the car was virtually invisible from every side. The engine was running and the heater was on to cut the cool evening air. Coetzee and Nwosu were arguing about whether to find a motel for the night or drive on. Nwosu wanted to continue to Beitbridge, which Leo now knew was on the Zimbabwean border. Coetzee was dead set against it, he didn’t trust the Zimbabwe immigration and he obviously didn’t trust the policeman. They weren’t paying attention to him. It was time to make a move.
The Rwandan Hostage Page 20