The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  He reached behind him and took hold of the torch under the blanket and said to Blethin. “I’m feeling light headed and my thighs are hurting and I’ve got no sensation in my feet,” he said, in a quiet, pained voice.

  The doctor got down from the tailgate and took one of Leo’s feet in his hands. “Where’s the pain in your thighs?” He squeezed the foot. “Can you feel that?”

  “No but you’ll feel this!” Leo smashed the torch into the side of Blethin’s head. The man went down without a sound and lay sprawled on the hardpan. Leo looked back into the car. The other two were still arguing. They’d seen and heard nothing. He climbed quietly down and felt through Blethin’s pockets, found his mobile phone and pushed it into his trouser pocket. The doctor was wearing sandals, but they looked to be several sizes too small. He was going to have to run barefoot across the field. From Coetzee’s previous remarks he knew they were about two hundred metres north of Grobler Street, the main road leading back to the N1. He’d seen the occasional lights of cars moving along in both directions. If he could reach the road and run a hundred metres to the right, he’d be back where they’d bought the burgers, in a populous part of town where he could find help.

  He moved quietly away from the Land Cruiser and stepped into a slow run into the pitch black night. After a few steps he shone the torch beam dimly through his fingers onto the ground. He didn’t want to alert Coetzee and Nwosu, but he couldn’t afford to injure his bare feet.

  London, England

  “We’ve had no news from Nwosu since they set off for Beitbridge this afternoon. He called at one o’clock Johannesburg time to inform me that he had neutralised Lambert, the hotel manager. He watched Coetzee and Blethin leave the hotel with the boy and he was going to meet them imminently at the departure point.”

  It was seven thirty in the evening in London and the Voice was on the telephone. He had heard nothing from Johannesburg nor Marbella and was feeling a little apprehensive. The operation was entering its most sensitive phase and they couldn’t afford anything to go wrong.

  “You should call him to see how things are going.” Slater sounded uneasy too.

  “He’s presently driving on the highway with Blethin, Coetzee and the boy. I don’t want to cause an unnecessary interruption. It’s a long drive and I’m sure the good sergeant will call me just as soon as he is able. I believe patience is the best virtue to employ for the moment.”

  “Then call him first thing in the morning. Let me know immediately if you hear anything. Do you have the next message ready?”

  “I do.” The Voice read out a short text, written and read as always in impeccable English grammar. “Are you content with that?”

  “I won’t be content until we see the funds arrive, but it’s OK. Send it first thing tomorrow after you call Nwosu. The sooner she receives it the sooner we can move into the last phase.

  The caller rang off and the Voice said, “He sounds more nervous than us.”

  “He has more to lose than us.” His companion took a sip of Sancerre and lit a cigarette. “In fact, exactly five times more. That’s a considerable fortune.”

  “Hmm. You’re becoming rather avaricious aren’t you? Don’t forget that he has financed this whole business. We are simply facilitators, paid to put the pieces together, with no accountability. I rather prefer being low profile. If the reward is less generous, the risk is similarly reduced.”

  “I think you’re underestimating our contribution. No, I mean my contribution.”

  “Let me explain something to you, since you have no previous experience of this type of arrangement. Being a part of a conspiracy is rather like being a member of a vocal group or a band, or even a football team. It’s composed of talented individuals who each imagine that their success depends on only one member, themselves. They don’t understand the notion of, ‘United we stand, Divided we fall’. So, they usually decide to go off on their own and, of course, they generally fail miserably. The success comes from being together, not from being apart. You understand?”

  “You sound like that talent scout on the ‘X Factor’. My point is we shouldn’t minimise the value of our services. Just think. I happened to put together a lot of valuable facts and told you about them. You then made the right contacts and set up this whole complicated money-making machine. Without you and me this operation wouldn’t have been possible. I think that’s worth more than twenty percent.”

  “Very well. I’ll bear your point of view in mind and if the opportunity to enhance our position presents itself, I shall not fail to pursue it. Is that good enough?”

  “If that’s a yes, then I agree.”

  Slater thought about the telephone conversation. He decided not to call his partner, he didn’t have any good news, or in fact any news at all. He’d wait until the morning.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Polokwane, Limpopo, South Africa

  “Jesus Christ!” Coetzee had registered a movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw the torchlight as Leo broke into a run across the field. Throwing the car into gear, he turned it and sped towards the main road, headlights full on. Nwosu almost fell out of the vehicle then slammed the passenger door shut. The car raced across the hardpan to cut off the boy’s escape angle, leaving a trail of items strewn around behind them from the open tailgate.

  The policeman took his Vektor from its holster. “What the hell happened to Blethin? Bunch of useless pricks you managed to hire. Where’s that bloody kid, I’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “You’ll teach him nothing, Nwosu. Wouldn’t you try to escape in his position? He’s showing spunk, like he should. And you seem to forget how valuable he is. We’ll get him back in the car, that’s all.”

  Leo looked behind him as the headlights caught him up, casting a long shadow on the ground ahead. He tried to make a turn to the right to get outside of Coetzee’s flanking approach. “Ouch!” He started hopping. Something, a sharp stone or thorn had penetrated the sole of his foot. “Shit!” He staggered forward and dropped the torch then fell clumsily, holding his injured foot, helplessly watching the car’s approach.

  Nwosu jumped out and hauled Leo to his feet. “You’ll fucking dead if you try that again.” He waved the pistol in his face.

  “Oh, you think so?” Leo grabbed him by the upper arms. The policeman was two inches shorter than him. He took his head back and butted him hard in the nose. There was a satisfying crunch of cartilage as the sergeant fell away with a cry, instinctively putting both hands to his face. Leo wrested the Vektor from his right hand and pushed him back. “Now who’s going to be fucking dead?” He pointed the gun at Nwosu’s head.

  “Calm down, Leo. Let me have the gun” Coetzee came round the vehicle, his own M9 Beretta pistol in his hand. He had watched the scene in the car headlights, relishing the sight of Nwosu’s mauling at the hands of a schoolboy. And he was delighted to see the policeman disarmed. He’s done half my job for me, he thought. Now he had to make sure the kid didn’t do anything dangerous with the weapon.

  “I’ll shoot the bastard if you come any closer.” Leo said, waving the pistol between the two men. “Get away from the car. I’m taking it so just stay out of my way.”

  “I don’t think so, Leo.” Coetzee dangled the keys in his hand. “First, you’re not the type to shoot anyone. Second, you’ve got a bleeding foot and no shoes and third, I doubt you could drive this monster. You may have managed to rearrange the sergeant’s face, but you’re not even old enough to have a driver’s licence. Now give me that pistol, it’s loaded.”

  “I’ll take my own fucking gun. And then I’ll blow away your balls, you vicious little prick.” Nwosu pushed Leo over onto his damaged foot and made to grab the Vektor from his hand. Off balance, Leo tried to pull the gun away and there was a sharp crack as the double action trigger mechanism was released in the struggle. Nwosu screamed and fell to the ground, holding his left shoulder, an agonised expression on his face.

  Leo dropped the gu
n as if it was red hot. He stood stock still, staring at the policeman on the ground, blood soaking through his shirt, his mind trying to register what had just happened. I’ve just shot a police sergeant, he realised. Holy shit! I’ll end up in prison in South Africa. What the hell have I done? Aloud, he said, “I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t mean the gun to go off. I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”

  Nwosu said nothing. He was in too much pain to utter any more obscenities. He was holding his bleeding shoulder and groaning in agony. He knew the bone was smashed, he could feel it moving in his hand and his nose felt like it had been set on fire.

  Coetzee bent down and picked up the Vektor. “That wasn’t smart, Leo,” he said. “Shooting cops never is.” His mind was working overtime, trying to weigh up the situation. “Here, help me get him into the back of the car.”

  Between them they helped Nwosu into the open back of the Land Cruiser. Coetzee put the other seat flat to make enough room for the policeman to lie in a semi-foetal position, his shoulder on the folded blanket. He took a whisky flask from the glove compartment and poured out a stiff dose which Nwosu gulped down, still not speaking, just moaning in pain. Leo was silent too. He was trying to sort out in his mind everything that had happened over the last few days. Trying to reconcile what he had done to Blethin and Nwosu with what had been done to him. He was terrified at the thought of what might happen to him next.

  Coetzee cut away the policeman’s shirt with his knife. The shoulder was a mess. It looked to him like the bullet had gone right through the flesh and out the back. It had probably damaged the muscle and the tendons, but there was no sign of any broken bones and no intense arterial bleeding. “Can you lift your arm?” He asked.

  Nwosu tried to raise his arm but gave a gasp of pain and dropped it again. “There’s something broken. I can’t lift it. The muscles won’t work. That little shit! We should never have got involved in this game. It’s not worth any amount of money. Just kill the bastard and let’s get out of here.”

  “Shut up, you idiot. You’ll frighten the kid. He’s still a valuable commodity, so just shut your mouth.”

  They’ve kidnapped me for money. Why do they think we’ve got money? My mother’s spent everything on this holiday. I know she’s broke.

  Coetzee opened up Blethin’s medical bag and cleaned the wound with disinfectant, enjoying Nwosu’s reaction to the sharp liquid. Like most bullies in authority, the policeman was a coward at heart. He padded some cotton gauze around the wound and bound it up around the arm and shoulder to support it, quietly considering the situation. He won’t be shooting anyone any time soon, he thought. And I’ve got Leo. He doesn’t know it but he’s just done me a great favour. He’s the asset and I’ve got him and Nwosu’s neutralised. He finished the bandaging. “You’re lucky, Jonathon. A bit of sticky tape and a sling and you’ll be as right as rain.”

  He cleaned Leo’s cut foot and bandaged it up too so he could walk without pain. They got into the vehicle and he drove slowly back across the field with the headlights on, picking up the torch and as much as they could of the stuff that had fallen out the tailgate. Fortunately the two jerry cans had been too heavy to fall out. He had a feeling he would need that extra gasoline the way things were going.

  They made their way back to Blethin, who was still lying motionless on the ground where they’d left him. Coetzee climbed down to examine the doctor, feeling the pulse in his neck and opening his eyes. He looked closely at the side of his head, just above the ear. Leo was too frightened to get out of the vehicle. He sat silently, waiting for the security chief to return.

  He came slowly back to the open window. “We’ve got a problem, Leo. Blethin’s copped it. You smashed the side of his head in. What did you hit him with?”

  Leo gasped. He felt as though Coetzee had pronounced a verdict of murder on him. “With that torch I found in the back. But I never meant to kill him. I just wanted to knock him down so I could get away. What’s going on, Mr Coetzee? Why are you people holding me like this? What’s happened to my mother? Where is she?” At this last plea, Leo started crying, a soft little boy’s cry from deep inside him, tears running down his face. “What’s happened to my mum?” He asked again in a strangled voice.

  Coetzee didn’t reply, just opened the tailgate again to check on Nwosu. He was lying groaning and nursing his shoulder, the blood from his nose making a ghastly mask across his face in the dim light. The nose was bent sideways, giving him a crazed look.

  “You have to get me to a hospital. My nose is killing me and my fucking shoulder is busted to pieces. I need a doctor.” Nwosu’s voice came out with a nasal whine. It was no longer arrogant or charming. He sounded weak and exhausted from fighting the pain.

  He rummaged in the medical bag. “Here, chew these.” Handing the sergeant two five hundred milligram paracetamol tablets and the flask of whisky. “Take a swig to wash them down. Then shut up. I’ll get you somewhere safe as soon as I work out what to do next.” He leaned over and found the policeman’s mobile and pushed it into his shirt pocket. “You won’t be needing this for now.” He slammed the tailgate shut again and climbed back into the cab alongside Leo.

  “Please tell me what’s going on, Mr Coetzee. Has something happened to my mom?” Leo asked in an anguished voice.

  “Let me think for a minute, Leo. Your mom’s fine and I promise you nothing bad will happen, but things have changed and I need to think this through. Just sit and be quiet for a while.” Coetzee sat in the driver’s seat, trying to work out a plan of action. It was difficult to concentrate over Leo’s sobbing and the pained moans from Nwosu.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Polokwane, Limpopo, South Africa

  Coetzee was examining Nwosu’s phone. His suspicious mind wondered who he had been calling and when. Leo was lying back in the passenger seat in a deep sleep, snoring gently with his mouth slightly open. There was no sound from Nwosu in the back. He’s probably finished the whiskey and passed out. In any case, he’s no threat. At least not for the moment.

  He knew the password, it was twelve zero nine, his boyfriend Jamie’s birth date. It had been easy enough to notice and remember. The mobile lit up and he looked up the call register. The last outgoing call was at five past one that afternoon to a city code he’d never heard of, 32 2. He couldn’t know that it was a number in Brussels, Belgium, which, via the miracle of modern telecommunications ended up as a 44 207 number in London. That was just about when Nwosu was coming to meet us for the trip. Not wishing to cause even more problems than they already had, he decided not to recall the number but it provoked his curiosity.

  He went through the phone agenda and found ‘Recordings’. Knowing the sergeant’s paranoia was second only to his own, he was sure to have recorded his calls, or at least those that might provide food for blackmail.

  The call at 13.05 wasn’t on the list. The last recorded conversation was at six-thirty on Tuesday evening, an incoming call from a ‘not possible’ number. The night before they told us about Beitbridge, he registered. He walked away from the car and listened to the recording.

  Marbella, Spain

  Jenny and Emma were sitting in the kitchen. Encarni and Espinoza had both left and the women had the house to themselves. Emma was looking dejected and miserable.

  Jenny tried to deflect her sister’s thoughts. “I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered and starving. Let’s see what we’ve got for supper.” She went to open the fridge door just as the telephone rang.

  “Jenny? I’m glad you’re at home. I was worried there’d be nobody there.”

  “Leticia? Where are you calling from?” Jenny put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to her sister, “It’s my co-owner, Leticia.”

  “I’m still in Nice with Emilio, but Patrice had to go back to Marbella on Monday for an important transaction at the bank, so we’re coming home in the morning. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s alright, but you should know that
my sister is staying for a while. She just arrived yesterday, quite unexpectedly.”

  “Emma’s there? That’s nice for you, but are you sure I should come? I don’t want to spoil the party.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s about time you two met. You’ll like her. When are you arriving?”

  “We’ll get into Malaga at twelve-thirty so I should be home before two in the afternoon. You’re certain I won’t be in the way?”

  “Not at all. And I can’t wait to see Emilio again. As a matter of fact, Sam’s also coming for lunch, so we can all get to know each other. I’ll send Juan to pick you up. See you tomorrow.”

  She put the phone down and sat beside her sister. “You’ll have noticed I don’t try to speak to Leticia in Spanish. Her English is almost better than mine now. Thanks to Charlie, she’s quite fluent. She’s very clever and easy to get along with.”

  “How do we prevent her from finding out what’s going on with Leo? I don’t think I’m up to pretending everything’s alright at the moment.”

  “You’re going to have to, because we can’t risk anyone suspecting something’s wrong. We have to behave normally, as if everything’s fine. We’ll manage, don’t worry. And she won’t be with us all the time, she’ll be in her own apartment. Last year we converted the other end of the house for her and Emilio. They need their space and they don’t want to spend every waking moment with Auntie Jenny. She usually prepares her son’s meals there and it works out very well. In any case she’s very discreet and always in a good mood. And Emilio is adorable and really funny. He’s destined to become a stand-up comedian. I’m sure it will do us both good to have them around. Now, what about supper?”

  “I couldn’t eat anything now. I’m going to have an early night if you don’t mind. I feel exhausted and I need a good night’s sleep.”