The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “But you have no idea what it’s like to have your only child in the hands of faceless murderers in some far off place. I feel so helpless.”

  “Actually I think I know pretty well what it’s like. I’ve been held hostage myself, with my family and a close friend, at gunpoint, on the brink of death at the hands of a pathological killer. But somehow we prevailed. Not all of us made it unfortunately, but the murderer died and I and Leticia and Emilio survived and I will never forget it as long as I live. I know that we can do the same here if we refuse to give up and work together to find Leo and bring these people to justice. I know we can do it, Emma. Please snap out of this mood of despair and help me.”

  Emma stared at her in astonishment. “So that’s what happened when you came over here after Charlie’s death?

  Jenny nodded. “And Ron’s death too. It’s not something I care to talk about or even think about, Leticia neither.” She paused, wondering how much to say. “It was a revenge attack by someone who thought Charlie and his friends had robbed his family in Angola. A man called d’Almeida, posing as a Spanish lawyer. He was abetted by a French woman called Esther Rousseau, a very clever accomplice. He was killed, but she subsequently disappeared.

  “My point is that our experience is an example of how strength, resistance and planning can win the day. Not just in your novels, but in real life as well. With Pedro we’re a team of three. Let’s start acting like a team.” She looked at her watch. “We can’t advise Pedro about this message now, he must be just boarding his flight. I’ll text him to call us when he gets to Frankfurt. In the meantime, let’s look at it again and see if we can spot anything further.”

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  Nwosu’s phone rang at just after four, it was the Voice again.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Coetzee. Do you have any further information for me? Have any other events transpired?”

  Coetzee was sitting on the deck, smoking a cheroot and reading page one hundred and eighty of An Extravagant Death. He had told Leo to stay in his bedroom because he had to take an important call.

  He put aside the Kindle. “Things are still just the same. I called the hospital and they’ve stitched up Nwosu’s shoulder and he’ll be able to leave in the morning. So I’ll keep the kid with me in this motel tonight then pick the sergeant up early and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I see. Are you still unwilling to divulge the whereabouts of the hospital or your accommodation?”

  “It’s not that I’m unwilling. I just don’t think it’s safe for us to let on where Leo is. It seems to me there’s far too many ‘accidents’ happening around us for me to give anything away.”

  “To what are you referring, Mr Coetzee?”

  “I’m talking about Lambert and Blethin. And Masuku, the guard. I don’t know what kind of cleaning up operation is going on, but me and Leo aren’t going to be part of it.”

  “You seem to be very well informed about recent news. Polokwane must be a veritable mine of information.”

  Coetzee took a deep drag of his cheroot. “They have newspapers here. We’re not exactly in the darkest jungle. And I have my sources, of course.” He waited expectantly for a reaction to this last comment.

  After the usual pause, the Voice continued, “Well, Mr. Coetzee, be that as it may, I give my assurance that you and the boy are in no danger, none at all. That is precisely why we have removed any possibility of this arrangement becoming known to a wider audience. It is in our own and indeed in your own interests that you should leave no traces behind when your task is accomplished. Which is why I am now speaking to you, to assist you in accomplishing just that. However in order to do so, I do need to know where you are, because I have made some arrangements which will facilitate your endeavours.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Instead of you going to Zimbabwe, I have arranged for two of my friends there to drive to Polokwane to take the boy off your hands. You can then pick up Sergeant Nwosu from the hospital and return to Johannesburg without further ado. What do you think of that?”

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “In point of fact, my friends are already on their way. I expect they will be in Polokwane by nightfall, that is to say in about two hours. You will therefore understand that I do need an address since Polokwane is quite a large town.”

  “OK. Give them this number and tell them to call me when they get to Polokwane. I’ll take the boy to them on one further condition, the money you promised me. I want it in my account before I hand over the boy. I’ve done my job and I want my reward. Otherwise the boy and I will disappear until I see the money. Is that understood?” The security man had no intention of handing Leo over to anyone. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

  “I agree, Mr Coetzee. You have done your job and you must be rewarded accordingly. I will give immediate instructions for the transfer and it will be in your account shortly. In the meantime please be prepared for my friend’s arrival and all will be well.” The phone went dead.

  Now Coetzee was really worried. He didn’t believe for a moment that the Voice intended to fulfil their agreement. Thank God we’re not in Polokwane, he reflected. Looks like we’ll need to move again tomorrow to keep ahead of them. They have more resources than I do.

  Cambridge, England

  Simon Pickford received a call from his chief telecoms engineer at four fifteen. “Thanks Tom,” he replied and made a note. After quickly checking the information online he called a London number.

  “Simon, that was impressively efficient.” The Voice sounded ebullient. “Do you have good news for me?”

  “You haven’t lost your touch, Sir. Just as you suspected, the phone is in South Africa, but not in Polokwane.”

  “Do you have an exact location?”

  “Not precisely. We used triangulation because of the short time available, but it’s accurate to less than a kilometre.” Pickford had not enquired after the reason for the trace and he had no wish to know. He received regular and unusual requests from his old College Master and he was wary of becoming embroiled in any suspicious affair. He had a very large fortune to protect.

  “And where might that specific kilometre be situated?”

  “I’ve never heard of the place. Phalaborwa. I looked it up and it’s in Limpopo province, right next to the Kruger.”

  “Phalaborwa? Can you spell it out for me? It’s far beyond the geographical knowledge of a University Professor.” He noted the name down from Pickford’s spelling. “Do you have the coordinates of your triangulation?”

  He wrote down the latitude and longitude cross references. “That’s marvellous. Well done and thank you, young man. No wonder your company is so successful. I envy your propensity for technical competence. I can hardly operate a mobile phone, even less a computer.”

  “You taught me all the theoretical knowledge I needed to build my platform, Master. So it’s at your disposal whenever you need my help.”

  “Thank you, Simon. Now, if I may make one further request?”

  “The entire EzeTracker team is at your disposal.”

  The Voice explained his requirements in a few words. “Is that technically feasible?”

  “It’s more difficult if there isn’t an open line, but still possible now that we have the IP address of the phone. As long as it remains switched on and on the same network, we can follow it to the nearest GSM mast. I need an hour or so to get it set up then we can report whenever you want.”

  “It’s now four thirty. Can you start to give me positions from, say six o’clock, on the hour? You don’t need to spoil your evening by calling. A text from your technical people will be more than adequate.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got more meetings. I’ll arrange the set up immediately and check it myself until I leave at eight-thirty. Then we can report until midnight. After that my support staff are on duty and I don’t want to give them such a delicate task, so we’l
l be off the air until seven in the morning. I hope that’ll be OK.”

  “Thank you Simon, that will be most acceptable. Please give my regards to your wife and family and I hope to see you all soon.”

  The Voice put down his phone and turned to the other person in the room. “Did you hear that? It seems our Mr Coetzee is trying to bamboozle us as to his whereabouts. Impertinent man! I can’t believe he is insulting our intelligence in this fashion. He must pay for such prevarication.”

  “Here it is.” His companion had already found the location. “The cross point is situated right on the Olifants River. Sounds like an ideal spot for a safari holiday, several hotels and lodges there, they must be in one of them. Do you want me to start enquiring?”

  “No. You won’t make any progress by phone from England to South Africa. It will be a waste of time and money and may come to Coetzee’s attention. I’m sure he has protected his privacy with some ready cash. I know I would have taken that precaution. I shall inform our Zimbabwe team to head for Phalaborwa and they can scour the area when they arrive. It can’t be too difficult to find a single man and a boy in a hotel. It’s bound to be noticed. In addition, we now have a trace on him if he decides for some reason to relocate to another destination. But my attention is now directed to Sergeant Nwosu. Where is he? Has he really been injured? It’s all very odd.”

  “Have you thought of the possibility that Coetzee doesn’t have the boy? Perhaps it’s Nwosu who has him and he’s making plans of his own.”

  “I think we can be certain of just one thing. The boy can’t have escaped or we would be aware of it. He would have sought help and there would be some sign of it in the news or in the behaviour of our ‘targets’.

  “So what do you suggest? We wait until the gorillas get to Phalaborwa and just hope for the best?”

  “I suggest that you google Polokwane and look for hospitals and clinics? They can’t be too numerous. Then you can feed your impetuous nature by calling to ask if they have a Police Sergeant who has just undergone shoulder surgery. That may complete our picture; Nwosu in hospital, Coetzee and Leo in Phalaborwa.”

  “Are you going to tell the others about this?”

  “I think not. There have been too many anti-climaxes already. I have no wish to provoke another. I’m calling Harare now.”

  Masekwaspoort, Limpopo, South Africa

  The 1995 black Mercedes long wheelbase S600 was driving through the Nzehelele Nature Reserve on the N1 South in the direction of Polokwane. Although the car was fifteen years old and had done almost two hundred thousand kilometres, it was in showroom condition, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. It approached the Boabab Plaza toll station through Masekwaspoort, a natural cleft in the Soutpansberg, the magnificent forested mountain range of northern South Africa, at one hundred sixty kilometres per hour as if it were coasting. Nightfall was still more than an hour away and there was a soft luminous light in the sky.

  The driver was a grizzled black man in a worn black suit and shoes, a white shirt and a straw trilby. Sunshades hid his eyes, which was just as well, they weren’t pleasant to look into. They’d seen too many dreadful things over the last fifty years, many of them at his own hands. He looked straight ahead at the road and hadn’t spoken since they had set off from Beitbridge, in Matabeleland South, Zimbabwe, just over an hour earlier. He was by nature taciturn and didn’t make friends easily, nor for long. One of his friends, or maybe an enemy, had once said of him, “Plato’s a difficult man to forget, but it’s well worth the effort.”

  The man sitting beside him was about thirty, with a huge explosion of frizzy black hair, wearing a tennis shirt, jeans and white, expensive sneakers with a red motif. On his wrist he sported a large, ostentatious two-tone gold watch. Despite the size of the car’s spacious interior, big enough for eight persons, he was so tall and massive, his knees were almost up under his chin. He reached for a cigarette then remembered the driver’s admonishment, “No smoking!” Instead, he placed a piece of gum in his mouth and rubbed the tattoo on the back of his neck in frustration. The incongruous drawing was of a lithe, elegantly beautiful gazelle done in brown and black.

  Despite the frigid atmosphere that separated the two men, the darkened windows created an intimate ambience inside the limousine. The only faint sound was that of the V12 engine purring as quietly as a kitten, when the clamour of pop music suddenly invaded the silence. It was the raucous voice of Tina Turner, belting out, You’re the Best.

  The passenger pulled out his mobile. It looked like a toy phone in his huge hand. “Hello, this is Gregory,” he said in a melodious bass voice. He listened for a moment then said, “Wait a minute,” and held the phone aside. Turning to the driver, he announced, “We’ve got new instructions. You’d better pull over.”

  The car pulled across to the hard shoulder and the driver switched on the warning lights. “Give it here,” he took the mobile from the younger man.

  “Plato speaking,” he said. “Who’s this?”

  He listened for a minute then said, “Hold on. Greg, write this down. OK, go ahead.”

  He repeated everything twice and the passenger scribbled it down on the back of a take away menu.

  “Is that it? Alright, we’ll call when we get there.” He gave the phone back and started the car again. “We’re going to visit the Kruger,” he said and drove the enormous vehicle back onto the motorway.

  London, England

  “Hello?” Slater replied cautiously to the call on his mobile. He was still sitting in the chair in his hotel room. After downing a stiff whisky he had fallen asleep and the ring tone had rudely woken him. He was still drowsy.

  “Yes, it’s me.” he said.

  “Listen carefully.” It was his partner, the funder of the transaction, calling back. “I can hardly credit what’s going on. I’ve put a half a million dollars into this deal and it sounds like it’s in the hands of a bunch of bloody incompetent arseholes.”

  The man listened in silence, dreading what might come next. He couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity. His share of the profits would set him up for a new life, a life he desperately wanted and needed. There was no way he could continue much longer in the situation he was in. He was desperate.

  “I’m flying to London to oversee the whole business myself, tomorrow! Book me into your hotel and arrange a meeting with the others. I’ll sort things out. If I have to, I’ll fly to Joburg and kick the shit out of those amateurs over there as well. Everybody is making money at the moment except me and it’s going to change. You know how good I am at organising complicated solutions.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. The deal was still alive. “I was going home tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll stay and organise a meeting for when you get here. Send me your flight details and I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up at Heathrow.”

  After agreeing on the arrangements, he said, rather feebly, “Have a safe flight.”

  When his partner rang off he called a London number. “Good afternoon,” replied the mellifluous tone of the Voice.

  FORTY-SIX

  London, England

  “Have you been able to ascertain the whereabouts of the good sergeant yet?” The Voice had been otherwise occupied in arranging a pick-up car and hotel accommodation for the funder and hadn’t followed his companion’s online search.

  “I’ve established that there are two clinics in Polokwane and twenty-five in the whole of Limpopo. So, to live up to your perfectionist demands, I called all twenty-five of them.”

  “And with what result?”

  “None whatsoever! If Sergeant Nwosu was treated by a hospital or clinic, it wasn’t near Polokwane. No policeman has been seen by any of them since last year when four officers were injured in a drug bust at the airport. And there has been only one patient who came in for shoulder surgery this month and it was a sixty-five year old woman. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  The Voice’s demeanour didn’t change. “Not necessa
rily bad, but intriguing. If Nwosu isn’t in the hospital, where is he? Why and how has Coetzee usurped both his telephone and the boy? And why is he in Phalaborwa with him? Or without him, since we actually have no proof that he has Leo in his custody.”

  “There must have been a falling out of the gang. Coetzee has overcome Nwosu and has both the phone and the boy. That’s the only explanation.”

  “I agree, but the question I am posing to myself is, why has Sergeant Nwosu not contacted us? He has the Belgian number and could have called. He knows that we have resources nearby in Beitbridge, so why is he avoiding us?”

  “We’d better have more accurate information when the funder arrives tomorrow morning or it could get nasty.”

  “I agree. We must make every effort to ascertain the whereabouts of Nwosu, Coetzee and Leo. Our paymaster will expect no less from us. We must avoid incurring a wrathful reaction at any cost, there is a tendency towards rather drastic remedies and it could be expensive in many ways.”

  “I don’t see what we can do from here to locate them. That’s the problem with this transaction, we’ve got no visibility on what’s happening over there and it’s running out of control.” His companion lit a cigarette and started pacing the floor nervously. “We’ll have to wait and see what the Zimbabweans find when they get to Phalaborwa. Coetzee doesn’t know we have traced him there and as you said, there are only so many places he could be staying, with or without the boy.”

  The Voice looked pensive. “Perhaps. But I’m going to take one more precaution. I shall ask Mr Coetzee for a recent photograph of the boy. If we receive it, we’ll have located two out of three of them, and most importantly, our most valuable asset, Leo Stewart.”

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  Coetzee was immersed in Emma’s book again when he received the call from the Voice at six thirty. He walked away from Leo, who was still sitting on the deck. After the usual pleasantries and queries about Nwosu’s health, the caller asked, “Would it be possible for you to provide me with a photograph of Leo, taken today?”