The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  He looked at her, a wry smile on his lips. “As they say in your country; No pressure there!”

  London, England

  “What did he say?” The Voice’s companion blew a smoke ring across the room, appearing unconcerned at the latest conversation.

  “Very little. Our Mr Coetzee is not the most talkative of personages. Only that they have managed to get no further than Polokwane, which as you know is approximately two-thirds of the way to Beitbridge. It seems the good sergeant may be out executing, (a most appropriate verb), our latest instructions. I’m talking about Doctor Blethin of course. After which they intend to pursue their itinerary. I’ll call again after lunch when they should be in Beitbridge with our friends. Once the boy is safely there, neither Coetzee nor Nwosu will survive their visit.”

  “I’m not surprised. I hear it’s a very dangerous country.”

  “Indeed. I sometimes wonder how many of these leaders manage to hang on to power, considering the strife and discontent they create amongst their subjects.”

  “Do you think Leo Stewart will be safe there? He’s just a boy.”

  “I have no idea and it’s really beyond our mandate to worry about it. From the moment Leo fell into our hands he became an item of merchandise. A very valuable item of merchandise, but merchandise all the same, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “That’s a very heartless way to look at the situation. You’re suggesting he might not be returned to his mother when the ransom is paid?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. I am simply stating that it’s not our business, that’s all. By the way, speaking of payments, were you able to call back the last transfer?”

  “Of course. I haven’t forgotten what I learned in my previous profession. I told the bank I’d duplicated the previous order by mistake and they required only an email confirmation from me. It will be reversed with tomorrow’s value date. They always hang on to the funds for a day or so. Sticky fingers, bankers. Oh, and the further hundred thousand arrived in the account just a moment ago. We have a little over quarter of a million available now.”

  “Excellent! We may be able to make an additional profit for ourselves, as you so often request. Now, it’s time to send the second message. Let’s see what reaction that will provoke.”

  The Voice opened up his laptop. “Very beautifully written, even if I say so myself,” he said as he read it aloud for the twentieth time. “Off it goes,” he announced and pressed Send.

  FORTY-ONE

  Marbella, Spain

  Jenny was reserving the flight to Polokwane when Emma’s laptop pinged. Espinoza saw the blood drain from her face as she read the message. She turned the screen towards them without a word then sat with her elbows on the desk, her head in her hands.

  The email was from the same Filipino address as the previous one, args@ipsend. He adjusted his spectacles and read it aloud.

  Over one million Rwandan Tutsis were slaughtered in 1994 in a bloodthirsty genocide orchestrated by the Hutu government, aided and abetted by the Hutu press and media. Retribution by the courts has been slow and ineffective and has brought no recompense to the Tutsi people. We, the descendants of hundreds of Tutsi families who were decimated by the slaughter demand that amends be made by the instigators, families and descendants of those who committed the atrocities. To that end we have formed the ALLIANCE OF RWANDAN GENOCIDE SURVIVORS to find those people and to seek retribution for our suffering.

  We have proof that your son, LEOPOLD STEWART, who is in our custody, is the illegitimate son of a member of the Hutu Akazu, a murderer, coward and instigator of hatred and genocide toward the Rwandan Tutsis whose actions contributed to the slaughter of our people. You are amongst those who must make amends.

  In return for the safe return of your son we hereby demand the sum of TEN MILLION US DOLLARS as your contribution to the ARGS which will be used to alleviate the suffering and impoverishment of many Tutsis in our community. We will provide instructions for the transfer of this amount by tomorrow evening, Friday 16th July. Leo will be released and delivered to a safe place within one hour of funds being received. If funds are not received by close of business on Wednesday 21st July, or if you attempt to make any contact with the authorities, they will be informed of your son’s illegal status and you will have no further news of him.

  ALLIANCE OF RWANDAN GENOCIDE SURVIVORS.

  London, England

  “I can confirm that the second message has been sent as agreed a few minutes ago.”

  “Good. Have you spoken to the policeman?” Slater sounded even more nervous than previously.

  “I will speak with him this afternoon. He has been dealing with unfinished business it seems.”

  “In Beitbridge?”

  “No, in Polokwane, on the way. I spoke with Mr Coetzee.”

  “So the boy’s not there yet. Why not.”

  “The boy is fine but they have been delayed due to traffic problems. A mundane excuse I agree, but unfortunately we have no way of influencing the world around us. They expect to arrive in a few hours and I have advised our Zimbabwean friends accordingly.”

  And the unfinished business?”

  “I believe we may have mislaid the good doctor.”

  “So there’s only two remaining witnesses?”

  “Exactly, until that is, later this evening. To quote my favourite plot maker, Agatha Christie, And then there were none.”

  “Call me when everything is sorted out in Beitbridge.”

  Slater called his partner’s number. “The boy will arrive in Beitbridge this afternoon and there are only two remaining witnesses. The second message has gone.”

  “Good.” So everything’s back on track. You’d better make sure it stays that way. When are you coming back?”

  “I’ll stay until we get some two way communication. Somebody needs to be on top of them, so it’ll have to be me.”

  “Agreed. Call me when there’s anything to report.”

  Slater sat back in his chair feeling a sense of relief he hadn’t enjoyed for some time. He couldn’t imagine they had just demanded a ransom for a hostage they no longer held.

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  Do you have a family, Marius?” Coetzee had ordered ice cream. It was very warm on the terrace.

  “Everybody’s got a family, Leo.”

  “OK. I mean a wife, kids, that kind of family.” Leo was looking for a chink in the security man’s armour, a weakness he might be able to exploit.

  Coetzee pushed the empty dish away, wiped his mouth, took out a cheroot, lit it, took a deep drag and pondered the question. “I have a wife and daughter, but they don’t live with me.”

  “Shame. There’s a lot of kids like that in school, no dad. Me, for example. In fact there might even be more without a father than with.”

  “It’s the way of the world. The number of people getting married goes down as fast as the number of divorces goes up.”

  “How old is your daughter? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I don’t mind. She’s the exact same age as you, fifteen. Her name’s Abby. She’s football mad as well.” Coetzee took another drag on his cheroot, trying to look indifferent to the discussion.

  “So why would you kidnap a kid the same age as your own daughter?”

  “I told you already, I did it just for money, it’s that simple.” He stared angrily at Leo. “Do you realise I could take you to the authorities and testify that you shot a police sergeant and killed a doctor and your life would be over. Instead, I’m looking after you like a son and asking for a very reasonable reward to return you to your mother.”

  “Maybe, but maybe not.” Leo tried to sound confident and assertive. “I’m pretty sure Sergeant Nwosu would say it was you who did it all. He hates your guts and wants to get his hands on me. He’s a cop and as far as Blethin is concerned, it’s my word against yours and you’re a kidnapper. So I don’t really buy your story.”

  �
�OK, Leo, I agree we’re both in a tight spot. But one thing’s for sure. If you try to make a run for it or somehow manage to escape, you’ll be a target for Nwosu and me both and I’d strongly advise against that.”

  “Have you already asked for a ransom? Sorry, reward. Was that what the phone call was about?”

  “Stop quizzing me. You’ll know soon enough what’s going on.” Coetzee got up and walked into the lodge. This kid is going to drive me insane, he thought. He sat at his laptop and began to prepare an email to Emma. He wasn’t happy about it, but it was the only way.

  Marbella, Spain

  “I’ll make you a cup of tea. That’ll sort you out.” Jenny took refuge in the oldest restorative mechanism in the UK, the teapot. Despite her own astonishment at the ransom message, she had spent the last fifteen minutes trying to console her sister. She and Espinoza had explained that this was a negotiating stance by the abductors. There was no way in the world they would expect to receive the amount they asked for.

  “Statistics show that ransoms paid, if at all, usually constitute a fraction of the original demand. It takes time, but it always works that way.” Espinoza was making facts up as he went along, hoping that both women would be reassured. He himself had been thunderstruck by the amount. Not even Mme Bishop can raise so much money, he said to himself. The sooner I get down to Polokwane the more I can find out about this business and the better positioned we are to negotiate. He didn’t want Jenny to start thinking about any kind of settlement. There was vital investigative work to be done before any negotiation.

  He tried to calm Emma down. “You must understand that Leo is presently the safest he can be in the circumstances. The abductors have now made their demand, so we know what this is about – money, so they are not about to kill the golden goose. I’m sorry, that was a bad analogy,” he added as she looked at him in distress.

  “We must play for time. We’ve found out a lot but now it’s essential I go to Polokwane to start my investigation in the place where he’s been taken.”

  “We were absolutely right about Galaganza, weren’t we?” Jenny brought the tea and joined in the discussion. “Pedro’s right, without even moving out of this house we have found out an enormous amount. When he gets down there, he has the advantage of that knowledge and police resources to work with.”

  “But it’s already four days since he was taken. I can’t bear it, not knowing where he is, what’s being done to him. He’s only fifteen, he’s still a child. Every single minute without him seems like an eternity. And now this demand for a ridiculous amount of money.”

  “Emma. I’ve told you to leave the problem of money to me. I’m quite sure that we can negotiate them down to an amount I can manage. They’re bound to have demanded much more than they expect to get. And Pedro’s right about investigating what’s going on in South Africa. At the same time we have to open negotiations and try to discover the link that leads us to the brains behind this plot.

  “Let’s examine the message itself.” Espinoza moved the discussion to a more pragmatic point. He placed the laptop where they could all see the screen. “It was sent to your personal address just a few minutes ago, which reinforces our theory that the sender is on European time. Let me read the text again slowly.”

  Jenny was the first to comment. “I don’t believe this ARGS group even exists.” She took her iPad and typed the initials into Google.

  “Look! It’s an acronym for Alternate Reality Game. That’s a kind of Internet game where people can enter whatever input they want to change a story to influence the events or the ending. It’s just a made up name. I’m certain it has nothing to do with Rwandan retribution, just a gang of kidnappers trying to blackmail us into handing over a fortune of money. ”

  Espinoza interjected, “They say they have proof of Leo’s birth. Is that possible, Emma?”

  “Unless it’s written by Tony or Dr Constance, it’s impossible. Only you and Jenny have heard this story. I wouldn’t dare tell it to anyone else.”

  “They may be bluffing, but they must have some knowledge of what happened in Rwanda. However, if they divulge whatever they have discovered they lose one of their bargaining points, so I don’t think that’s likely. What else can you read from the message?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s been written by the same person,” she said.

  “You mean the elaborate English?”

  “Exactly.” She forced herself to concentrate on the message again, even though reading the words made her feel physically sick. “Phrases like, make amends and words like decimated, instigator and impoverishment. This is very English. Really old school vocabulary. With texting and Twitter and the ineffective school system, the modern generation don’t use words like this anymore.”

  “So, you’re suggesting it was written by an older, English person?”

  “Yes. Someone who enjoys writing beautifully. Even though the content is untruthful, horrible and villainous, they want it to read like Charles Dickens.”

  “It sounds like someone with a high regard for themselves.”

  “Probably. Someone who feels superior to others. An academically qualified person, or someone born into money or power. Possibly a member of the aristocracy?”

  Jenny said, “Now I suppose we have to ask for what they call, ‘proof of life’.”

  “That’s right. It’s more or less a formality, but we have to let them know that we understand the rules of the game. And we may glean some additional information, as we did from the first photograph.” Espinoza looked at his watch. “It’s now after noon. I must get home to prepare for my trip and be at the airport on time. First, I have to take my dear wife out for lunch since she’s going to lose me for a while.”

  “And we have visitors for lunch.” Jenny said. “We’ll reply to the email this evening when we’ve had time to think about it.”

  They went to the door. “Oh!” Jenny added, “I forgot to tell you, Leticia’s coming home today.”

  “Please give her my best regards. I hope to see her on my return. Goodbye, ladies.”

  Emma squeezed his hand. “Please bring Leo home soon, Pedro. I’m putting all my trust in you.”

  “Try to keep your morale up. Have confidence and I promise we’ll continue to move forward. I’ll be in touch as soon as I arrive in South Africa.” He embraced them both and went out to his car.

  It was eighty-six and a half hours since Leo had been taken.

  FORTY-TWO

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  At his hostage’s request, Coetzee had ordered pizzas for lunch. Leo had decided to make the most of this enforced prolongation to his vacation. It might be years before his mother could afford another holiday. They were both in swimming trunk, sitting on the terrace under a canopy, having had a dip in a cordoned off area of the river in front of the lodge. He was thrilled to have swum in a river that Coetzee told him was infested with six foot crocodiles, although they hadn’t seen one.

  Coetzee was studying the Mail & Guardian morning newspaper that had been delivered to the lodge. He stiffened noticeably and folded it up. “Leo, get me a beer from the minibar, will you?” He waited until the boy was inside then shoved the folded paper under the cushion of his chair.

  The local news headline still burned in his mind. Suspicious Death in Mayfair. Packard Hotel Manager in 7th Floor Death Plunge.

  Poor old Barry Lambert, he thoght. Nwosu got him before he left, just as I thought. It wasn’t the kind of item he wanted Leo to read, even though he had probably already worked it out. And the police sergeant would be looking for them as soon as he was fit to shoot a gun again. He thought back over the last twenty-four hours. There was no way they could be traced to the lodge. He’d paid for everything with cash, given a false name and bribed the desk clerk to forget the passport requirements. The guy probably thinks I’m a paedophile, he reflected. I’ve got two days, max., then we’ll move and keep moving until I see some money arrive.

  L
eo brought his beer. “Thanks,” he said. “I can’t eat all this, do you want a slice?”

  He transferred half his pizza onto Leo’s plate and took a swig of beer. They continued their lunch in silence, both thinking about their situation. Both making plans.

  Malaga, Spain

  “Why are you off to South Africa, Papa?” Espinoza was lunching with his wife and daughter at his favourite tapas bar. It was a very hot day and they sat inside to avoid the burning sun, as most Spanish people did.

  “It’s quite an interesting job, Laura. An abduction, a young boy. But I can’t tell you more than that, it’s rather complicated and confidential.”

  “But it happened in South Africa?”

  Espinoza said nothing, just gave his daughter a look and took a bite from his croqueta de jamon.

  His wife interrupted, “Isn’t it to do with the nice English lady who was almost killed two years ago? Snra Bishop, in Marbella?”

  “Please Soledad! How can I earn a reputation as an irreproachably discreet private detective if you keep guessing the names of my clients? Anyway,” he added, “it is not Mme Bishop, it’s another person entirely.”

  “I was just thinking that it would be typical if the poor woman hadn’t seen the last of that business. There were some nasty people involved, I remember. And you should know better than I do that people like that have a way of turning up again, just like bad pennies.”

  His wife and daughter continued to chatter on while Espinoza’s mind turned to a new track. Soledad was extremely inquisitive and intuitive and had a woman’s knack of sometimes seeing things that he missed. He reflected back to the cast of characters involved in the d’Almeida murder spree. Sadly, most of them were dead, but apart from poor Adam Peterson, not on his watch. He tried to remember anyone who had survived, anyone involved with the murderer. He dredged a name from the back of his memory, d’Almeida’s French girlfriend. Ellen, no, Ethel, no. Esther, Esther Rousseau, that’s it! He recalled with satisfaction. The woman who had never been found. The bank employee who had provided d’Almeida with information that permitted him to transfer the Angolan Clan fortune from the Swiss bank to no one knew where. The fortune that Jenny had recovered just a few months ago. Unfortunately there was no clear proof that she was involved in the Internet robbery and he had been unable to obtain an Interpol warrant for her arrest. Once the hue and cry had died down he knew that the national police and immigration personnel would have quickly lost interest in her and she could be anywhere in the world.