On a beautifully restored Chippendale dining table in the corner was an eclectic display of memorabilia, each exhibit labelled with a date and description. An African elephant’s foot stood next to a horn from a white rhino and the dried penis of a South China tiger. Several Egyptian relics from the Valley of the Kings were presented next to a collection of antique manuscripts and a Roman ivory diptych. A shelf above the table held a large collection of rare publications of erotica; a 1955 French edition of Nabokov’s Lolita, Ratirahasya, Kokokka’s Indian sex manual written in the eleventh century in Sanskrit, a Latin edition of Ars Amatoria, by Ovid and others of equally unique provenance. Tellingly, a copy in the original Mandarin, of Gao Lian’s On Abstinence in Sex, from the XVI century was prominently displayed. There were many more priceless or unobtainable items, the epitome being a small, exquisite vase dating from the Ming dynasty placed on top of a beautiful Japanese lacquered cabinet from the 15th century. The table held a treasure trove of stolen antiquities and illegal hunting trophies collected over a period of almost twenty years.
Despite owning these objects from many parts of the world Dudley had never been beyond the borders of England and would not take a trip longer than a local taxi ride. He suffered from hodophobia, an irrational fear of travelling any further distance on transport of any kind. He didn’t own a car and had never learned to drive. The very thought of setting out on a trip, even a holiday away from his apartment filled him with panic and caused sweating and often nausea. And so, since his relocation from Cambridge to his apartment in Westminster, seven years ago, he had never been further north than Regent’s Park nor further south than Wandsworth Common. He relied entirely on the network of friends and colleagues he had managed to assemble during his years at Cambridge College of Digital Computing. Without travelling anywhere, Lord Arthur Dudley had virtually the whole world in his hands; to make money and to obtain what he wanted.
Looking around the study appreciatively he sat at his desk and pulled a file towards him. A diary was open at today’s date and he flicked through to July 18th. The date had a red ring around it and a handwritten note, Shipment from Marseille. He opened the file and reviewed the email he had received that morning via his ISP in the Philippines. On the desk there were three prepaid mobile phones, each with a SIM from a different service provider; T-Mobile in Germany, Bouygues in France and AT&T in the US. All of them would show up as Not Possible on the recipients’ screens, because they all transited the communication through Proximus in Belgium. He chose the phone with the AT&T connection and called a Geneva number.
“Oui, allo.”
“Bonsoir, M Jolidon,” he said. He could hear music in the background and assumed that the man was in the casino as he usually was in the evenings.
“Ah, bonsoir Monsieur. Just a minute, I’ll find a quiet corner to speak. Right, that’s better. What can I do for you, Monsieur?”
Dudley continued the conversation in fairly fluent French. He was at ease both in that language and Spanish but had never spoken French to Esther. He preferred to keep such information to himself. It often proved useful to overhear a conversation that he wasn’t intended to understand. “Do you have any positive news for me since our last conversation? I need to make certain arrangements, as you know. What is the latest situation?”
“It’s still not clear. There is some confusion over the bids for the merchandise and as you pointed out to me, money talks.”
“And what are you doing about it, if anything?”
The funder is flying over to see me in the morning. I’ll see what we’re able to salvage from the operation. It may only be a question of making a little less profit, but I need to speak to him personally.”
“On the contrary. I strongly suggest that you induce your funder to increase the financial incentive. It’s in everyone’s interests, his own and ours too.”
“I see what you mean. He can hardly walk away from his original investment, can he? I’ll try that approach and see how it works.
Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.”
“Please call me as soon as you have further news. I’ll be awaiting your call.”
Dudley rang off and sat reflecting on the conversation. It’s strange how small the world is. He had been introduced to Esther by Jolidon and it promised to be a very profitable introduction. His position as Director of the Safe Keeping Department at Ramseyer, Haldemann brought him into contact with a large number of wealthy and often well-known personalities. It was only to be expected that some of that wealth would rub off on those around them.
Using the US phone again he called the number in Marseille from his contact list. “Thank you for your email message. So you’ve informed the other party that the merchandise is no longer available?”
“Bien sûr, Monsieur. Of course. I called him yesterday in accordance with your instructions. He is going to call me after he meets with his funder.”
“That’s excellent, well done. And it’s confirmed that the shipment will be arriving on Sunday, the 18th?”
“ Oui Monsieur. The ship left Latakia on the 13th and is arriving in Marseille early evening on Sunday. Unloading will commence first thing on Monday morning. Everything is going according to schedule. I am only waiting for your final instructions on who is actually going to collect the merchandise.”
“You will have final and definite instructions by Saturday at the latest, together with details of the payment and collection procedure. Is that acceptable?”
“You have never failed me Monsieur, merci.”
“Très bien. Merci et bonne nuit. Thanks and goodnight.”
Dudley closed the file, locked the office door and went to pour himself a glass of Burgundy. That’s the problem with being an intermediary, he smiled to himself. You’re never really sure what’s going on elsewhere.
DAY SIX
Friday, July 16, 2010
FIFTY-THREE
Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa
Coetzee’s Land Cruiser pulled up in front of the apartment in Diepkloof at two forty-five in the morning. He had smoked ten cheroots on the journey and drunk a litre of water and he was knackered and feeling queasy. He’d made a quick stop for petrol after leaving the toll road at Pretoria. Thankfully the car had an enormous capacity, over six hundred kilometres, but he was being ultra-careful. Leo had stayed awake from then on, trying to cross examine him on where they were going and why, but he had stayed tight lipped. He had a plan and he didn’t want it second guessed by an inexperienced school kid, however bright he might be.
“Come on,” he said as he got out the car. “We’re going to pick up a friend.”
They went up the stairs to the second floor and he pressed on a doorbell, three times. A moment later a light came on and a voice called, “Is that you, Jonathon?”
“It’s the ambulance service,” Coetzee called. “There’s been an accident.” He put his finger across his lips and held Leo to one side so they wouldn’t be seen through the spy hole.
“What’s happened?” The door opened a crack.
Coetzee smashed it open with his shoulder and pulled Leo inside with him then shut the door behind them. Jamie was standing in his underpants looking suitably terrified. “Who are you?” He asked in a trembling voice. “What do you want?”
“I’m Coetzee. Is anyone else here?” Jamie’s eyes flickered towards a door in the hallway.
The security chief strode to the door and pushed it open. A teenage boy was sitting up in the bed, a mobile in his hand.
“Throw it here!” Coetzee put out his hand and the boy threw the phone to him. “Well, well, two-timing your boyfriend, Jamie. He’ll be really upset when he finds out. You know he has a very short temper? Murderous I would call it.” He turned to Leo. “Sorry, I forgot to make the introductions. This is Nwosu’s devoted partner, Jamie and this is … who gives a shit? Get out!”
As the boy ran out the door, carrying his clothes, Coetzee said, “Get ready, Jamie. We’re going to visit you
r boyfriend.”
Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa
Plato parked the Mercedes about one hundred metres from the farmhouse and he and Greg walked along the road in the darkness. It was just after three in the morning and the moon was obscured by light cloud. They both carried Makarov PM semi-automatic pistols, provided by Russian intermediaries to the Zimbabwean gangster regime. Plato, who was a firearms fan and a renowned sharp shooter, held his pistol in his hand. Greg preferred to use his physical force and had never yet needed to resort to a pistol. It remained in his pocket, a decision he would come to regret.
He was feeling a lot better, since Plato had begrudgingly agreed to grab a take away from an all-night burger house in Lydenburg. Three cheeseburgers and fries and a large Coke had sorted out his stomach. He belched noisily as they walked and Plato gave him a disgusted look. Who gives a shit what he thinks, he told himself.
Light footed, they walked along the driveway to the entrance. The house looked enormous, a square building in the centre of a large plot of land. There were lights on downstairs but no sound to be heard. Inside the building every living creature, three humans and two dogs, was sound asleep. The house was silent and still until the sound of the doorbell rang out. Karen and her daughter awoke to the frenzied barking of the angry and frustrated dogs upstairs, fear and apprehension immediately returning to their minds.
Nwosu jumped up and took out his Vektor. “Get to the back of the room,” he told Karen. She and Abby struggled to their feet and retreated to the far end of the living space and sat on a settee, holding each other close.
“Is that you, Coetzee?” Nwosu called. When there was no answer, he looked through the spy hole. He could see nothing because Greg’s great thumb was in the way. He pressed the button in the front of the trigger guard to release the safety catch and held the weapon out in front of him in his right hand. “Get back, I’m opening up.”
He pulled the door ajar, still on the security chain. “Step forward, Coetzee. Careful, I’m armed.”
A huge black hand appeared through the gap, grabbed his hand, squeezed and turned it around. The pain was excruciating. Nwosu dropped the gun, but not before his wrist was broken by the strength of the unknown intruder. His hand was released and he stepped back, trying desperately to push the door closed with his unhurt right shoulder. The next moment he was lying on the floor in the open doorway after Greg had kicked the door and the chain bracket was torn off the wall.
Plato walked through with the Makarov in his hand, stepped over him and went directly across the room. “Where’s Coetzee and the kid?” He snarled at Karen.
Trembling with fear, she placed herself between Abby and the Zimbabwean. “They haven’t arrived yet.”
“Who’re you?”
“I’m his ex-wife and this is our daughter.”
“Sit there and keep quiet.” He walked back to where Greg was shoving Nwosu onto a chair near the door. He replaced his pistol in his pocket and picked the Vektor up off the floor, pointing it at the policeman’s head. “Why isn’t the kid with you?”
Nwosu’s had taken his arm out of the sling and was cradling his broken right wrist in his left hand. He was taking deep breaths, tears streaming down his face, his mind churning with this latest development. He realised that these men must be the Zimbabweans, sent by the Voice, He had no idea what had happened while he was in radio silence in Diepkloof. He had to brazen it out. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he blustered. “I’m a police officer interrogating a witness and you’ll be in deep shit if you don’t get out of here. There are other officers on the way.”
He screamed in pain as the Vektor smashed into his injured shoulder.
“I said, where’s the kid?”
“He’s on his way here with Coetzee,” he managed to gasp. “They overcame me and left me for dead. Just let me go and we’ll forget the whole thing. I’ve got a car, I can just disappear.”
“You can count on that. How come we got here before him from Phalaborwa? He left an hour before us.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know he was in Phalaborwa, he just said it was a long drive. I have no idea where the hell he’s been since he attacked me.”
Plato turned to Karen. “Is he telling the truth? What’s your name, anyway?”
“It’s Karen Coetzee and I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was determined not to say anything that could hurt Marius. “Will you tell me who you are?”
“No. But we won’t hurt you or your daughter. We don’t wage war on women or kids.”
At this Nwosu started sobbing. He knew he’d never get out of this mess alive. He cursed the day he’d listened to the Voice, sold his soul for money he would never see.
Greg went into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of tomatoes. He was still hungry. He came back and sat on the couch by the TV, noisily chewing the fruit. He stretched his huge body out, trying to get rid of the stiffness after sitting for so long in the car. Plato sat by the dinner table, still set with plates of half-eaten food and tried to ignore Greg. He checked his pistol, ensuring the safety was engaged and the hammer not in the cocked position. He was religiously cautious about checking the side-mounted safety lever when the magazine was in and the slide had been pulled back. He’d seen too many accidents to be careless. Placing it on the table in front of him he sat back in the chair to wait.
Over Mali, en route for Johannesburg, South Africa
Pedro Espinoza switched off the video screen and folded it back into its slot at the side of his seat. His flight had been delayed by an hour but the pilot had announced that a favourable tail wind would get them to Johannesburg on time. He had enjoyed his supper then relaxed and watched a film; Lethal Weapon 4, a cop movie about the Chinese Triad in Los Angeles. He’d enjoyed it until the hero managed to escape from drowning by dislocating his own shoulder. Espinoza knew that such a self-inflicted injury could only make matters worse.
A cabin attendant came up and made his flat bed for him and left a bottle of water at hand. He settled down for a few hours of sleep. Thank you, Jenny, he said to himself. I’m too old for an eleven hour flight in economy. Within a few minutes he was fast asleep, on his way through the night sky to South Africa, to find Leo Stewart.
Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa
Coetzee cut his headlights and coasted quietly along towards the farmhouse. About half way along the street a large black car was parked at the side. He pulled in behind it so he could examine it without being seen from the house. It was a Mercedes S600 with a white registration plate and in black lettering, the number 259-TCE 59. A Zimbabwe diplomatic registration, obviously belonging to someone with connections at the highest level. Diplomatic plates didn’t necessarily mean what they implied. TCE plates were issued to so-called ‘Technical Co-operation Experts’, which Coetzee knew covered a multitude of sins and often included friends and family of the government leaders. The African thugs were here. He hadn’t expected this. The Voice had said he was sending two of his friends but how had they beaten him to Karen’s house? He’d never divulged where he was nor where he was going and somehow they were here before him. How did they manage to find Karen? Unless Nwosu informed them, which I doubt. For a moment he was impressed with the investigative prowess of the opposition, as he now considered them.
He had to adapt his plan to these new circumstances. Facing two men didn’t worry him, he’d faced greater opposition many times and he was still around. It was two years since he’d seen active service but he knew he hadn’t lost the skills he’d learned during his years with the force. In addition, Coetzee was a fatalist, he’d do his best and to hell with the consequences. He knew that was the main reason his marriage had broken up. Karen was an idealist, striving for a better world, but in a cautious and thoughtful way. Although he had the same objective, he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. He made a plan then just got on with the job and so far he’d been lucky. Somehow that aspect of his char
acter had been hard for her to understand and had driven her away. Now, once again he had to use that same approach to resolve this situation. There was no other way.
He sat for a few moments thinking about his options. He’d driven down with a plan of action and having Jamie in his hands had been the key to disarming Nwosu, although that wouldn’t have been difficult anyway. But now there was an added complication, two Zimbabwean gangsters, presumably armed to the eyeballs, presented a challenge, especially with his wife and daughter in the house.
“What’s up, Coetzee? Is Nwosu in the house? Is that what this is about, swapping me for your family?” Leo was adding two and two and he didn’t like the result.
“Nwosu isn’t the problem, Leo. There’s two of the opposition in the house with my wife and daughter and they want you. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go with them so I’m going to have to stop it without you or my family getting hurt.”
Leo took a moment to register this. Coetzee wants to save his family and he also wants to save me. “Can I help?”
“Come with me, keep your head down and do what they say. You’re in no danger. They want you alive so they’re not about to hurt you.” He turned to Jamie in the back seat. “You’re staying here. If you come with us you’ll get yourself killed and I don’t want that on my conscience. Stay in the car with the doors locked and wait for us to come back.”
The Rwandan Hostage Page 33