The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “And you say a similar photo was used for both messages. I find that strange, as if there is an attempt to mislead us. It’s possible that Coetzee is still part of the original conspiracy and they are playing with our minds. Or he plans to take Leo away but hasn’t yet, until he’s sure that a payment has been made. We’re not certain of anything at the moment. Nothing at all.”

  Emma suddenly realised that Leo hadn’t replied to her text of that morning “I understand,” she said. “So what do you suggest?”

  “Firstly, I think you should send another email to the ARGS, acknowledging the photo and asking for some time to raise the funds. If they really do have Leo we have to keep in touch with them and buy as much time as we can.”

  “We’ll do that right away,” Jenny answered. “What else?”

  “I think it’s time I used the police resources available to me here in Johannesburg. I’m going to see CS Hendricks. I have some important information for him concerning his murder enquiries. I’ll call you later when I have more news.”

  Espinoza rang off and walked out of the departure lounge. He found a café in the arrivals hall and sat pondering these latest developments. His years of working in the force had taught him that events surrounding a crime were seldom unconnected. In his last experience with Sra Bishop and the killer, d’Almeida, he had failed to find the common thread to the murders and it had almost cost her and her family’s lives. He ran through the history of the abduction in his mind and, tearing a sheet from his notepad, he drew a kind of jigsaw puzzle, listing the possible connecting points that could lead him to the common denominator that must exist to link them together.

  Several ideas came to him and he looked at his watch, it was now a quarter to eleven. He made some telephone calls then went to find a taxi into Johannesburg.

  FIFTY-SIX

  London, England

  “You mean to say they have left Delmas and gone together to the same place?” Lord Dudley was speaking to Simon Pickford.

  “Yes According to the trace, both phones are stationary in a place called Diepkloof. It’s a suburb to the south of Johannesburg. They must have just arrived there. We had a technical glitch in the network, so we were late in checking.” He gave Dudley the map coordinates. “It seems to be an apartment building, but I can’t give you a more exact address.” The EzeTracker boss had been instructed by DI Dewar to find out more about his search for the phone users. He agreed that the business looked very suspicious, but for the moment nothing illegal had occurred. While he studied Dudley’s file, Pickford should pry discreetly into the matter.

  “Perhaps if you tell me what it is you’re looking for I can get more resources onto it,” he suggested.

  Dudley had already realised it must be Nwosu’s apartment. He even remembered the address from the background check they’d made before their very first contact with the policeman. “It won’t be necessary, dear boy. I’m confident that we can identify the location by other means. If you can just keep up the monitoring I’ll be quite happy. It’s a rather sensitive investigation, a marital problem. Nothing of any concern to anyone but the couples involved. Thank you for the offer and I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Pickford rang off, wondering if he had involved Dewar unnecessarily. He considered calling the policeman back but decided to let him check out Dudley first. Now that the matter was in Dewar’s hands he felt relieved. He could forget about it and get back to making money.

  Dudley immediately called Harare again. This time he changed his approach. He told the intermediary he thought he might know how to locate the two missing operatives and asked him how much it would cost to send a ‘colleague’ to an address in the Johannesburg area.

  “Hold on, let me check.” The man came back on the line again. “We could get someone there fairly shortly.” He quoted a fee, higher than usual, but Dudley knew he had no choice. If the two phones were there, the chances were that Leo Stewart was also there.

  He agreed to the offer and gave him instructions about Leo, with the address and coordinates he’d just received from Pickford. “If it’s in the name of Nwosu, you have the right place. And there will be at least two mobile phones in the apartment, please ensure they are retrieved. Call me as soon you have any further information.” He rang off. Things are starting to look up. Now we might see some results, he reflected more confidently.

  He went into the bathroom to clean his teeth again and sprinkle some after shave onto his neck. Esther would be waiting for him at the Park Lane Hotel and he was looking forward to his good morning kiss.

  Geneva, Switzerland

  “Veuillez attendre ici Monsieur. M Jolidon arrive tout de suite. Please wait here, sir. Mr Jolidon will be with you immediately.” Gilles Simenon nodded politely and backed out of the room.

  Prince ‘Sam’ Bensouda sat in an armchair in the small salon adjacent to the reception hall at Ramseyer, Haldemann and placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. He had flown in from Malaga the previous evening with Swiss International, who still offered an acceptable Business Class, and was staying at the Hotel Kempinski on the Quai du Mont-Blanc. Much to his self-satisfaction he had abstained from his usual visit to the casino in Divonne. Although he knew that Jolidon would be there, since that was where they had met, by chance, for the second time, he had decided to meet him on this occasion away from the temptation of the tables.

  “Votre altesse. Soyez le bienvenu à Genève. Welcome to Geneva.” Jolidon shook hands with him almost reverently and led him into his office, sitting across the desk from him, the bulky file between them. “Was your flight comfortable?”

  After completing the formalities and accepting a coffee, Bensouda asked, “What is the problem you mentioned on the telephone?”

  “It has to do with the valuable merchandise we acquired on your behalf, Monsieur. We have had some trouble holding onto it.”

  “I don’t understand that phrase, ‘holding onto it?”

  “It seems there is someone else who has understood the value involved and is attempting to usurp the transaction.”

  “But the merchandise was safely in our hands just a few days ago. What happened to change that?”

  “There has been a change of allegiance. One of the principal players has decided to strike out on his own. At the moment we are not sure what the situation is.” Jolidon flinched as he said this. The Moroccan’s temper was legendary and he had no desire to bear the brunt of it.

  “And what about our prepayment of one million dollars? Where is that?”

  “The operation has so far cost us eight hundred thousand, more or less. After we settle with the ship’s captain and the local agent there will be nothing left to, how can I put this, sweeten the pill.”

  Bensouda said nothing for a few moments but his heart was pounding. He didn’t believe a word of Jolidon’s story, but he had to play along. His very life depended upon doing this deal. These people are corrupt and only money will get things back on track. It’s always money, he thought. He quickly assessed the value of the remaining treasures in the family safety deposit box downstairs. Another bribe won’t make any difference in the grand scheme of things. If it’s successful. Finally, he said, “Perhaps we should discuss the commission arrangements.”

  “What did you have in mind, Monsieur?”

  “I was thinking that we could make an effort and pay an additional commission of, let’s say fifty thousand dollars, to ensure that there are no more complications or delays. Would that sort the matter out?”

  Jolidon shrugged his shoulders. “You are probably on the right track, but I think the problem is a little more complicated than that.”

  A few minutes of discussion resulted in an agreement of an additional commission of one hundred thousand dollars. Jolidon tried to supress his reaction. Another hundred thousand. How much of it could I divert my way? “That’s a very fair offer. I’m sure it could resolve the matter. I’ll get in touch immediately and call you as soon as
I know something. Are you at the Kempinski as usual?”

  Bensouda nodded. “Let me know as quickly as possible so I can arrange the funds. The merchandise must be on the last leg of the journey and I don’t want anything else to go wrong. Now I would like to retrieve something from my safety deposit box.”

  Jolidon called Gilles over and he accompanied the Moroccan down to the circular vault.

  Ten minutes later Bensouda came back to the entrance hall, clutching his briefcase at his side. Jolidon was waiting for him by the door.

  “I will call you the moment I have confirmation of the new arrangement. Goodbye, Monsieur le Prince.”

  The two men shook hands and Bensouda went out to his waiting limousine. Some habits he found hard to change.

  Marbella, Spain

  Emilio came running out to the terrace to greet Emma. “Bonjour, Emilio. Comment ca va? How are you?”

  The little boy laughed infectiously. “Vous parlez Francais? You speak French?”

  “That’s all I can say, so now we have to speak English.”

  Leticia followed him out, glamorously dressed in an expensive looking pink casual dress. “His English is not bad, Emma, but maybe you can help him improve it while you’re here. I wish mine was good enough to read your books, Jenny told me you’re a famous author.”

  “That’s what sisters are for. To brag on your behalf. The truth is I’ve written a few mediocre books and made very little money and no one knows who I am. That’s what being a famous author means.”

  Emma looked nervously at her sister but she just winked and immediately started fussing Emilio. They had just composed a reply to the ARGS and sent it off after checking it with Espinoza and she was still a little on edge. However, breakfast was so relaxed and pleasant that she felt a pang of guilt to be enjoying herself while her son was still not out of danger.

  “When is Patrice arriving?” Jenny was still wondering about his apparent propensity for travelling in circles instead of straight lines.

  “He called me a little while ago. His flight arrives at two o’clock and he’s coming straight here. Is that alright?”

  When Jenny nodded agreeably, she went on, “He’s been on so many aeroplanes recently I keep forgetting where he is. But it’s definitely London and he’ll be here in time for lunch.”

  Jenny had turned her mind to Leticia’s appearance in her dream. She didn’t know what it meant but maybe it was time to find out. She got up from the table. “Shall we look at those papers now?”

  “Oh.” Leticia gave a nervous laugh. “You don’t need to bother about it. I’m sorry if I worried you, I was just a bit tired last night. I’ll work it out with Patrice. Now I’m going to take Emilio for a walk and leave you with Emma. Vienes, Emilio.” She walked off towards the swimming pool with the little boy.

  Jenny went into the kitchen to collect her thoughts. What’s going on with Leticia? This is becoming very confusing.

  Scotland Yard, London, England

  DI Dewar was at his desk, looking though a large, brown dossier, reading only the sheets marked with a red pen. The name on the dossier was Lord Arthur Selwyn Savage Dudley.

  Underneath was written,

  AKA:

  Sir Sydney Lynx-Scarborough,

  The Right Honourable Harold Scott-Jamieson

  Percival Livingstone-Smythe.

  He hadn’t expected such an abundance of information so quickly. Flicking through the pages Dewar couldn’t believe the man hadn’t been incarcerated on many occasions. Although using aliases wasn’t strictly speaking a crime, using them for fraud, smuggling, confidence tricks and other nefarious activities certainly was. It seemed that Dudley was clever enough to be just beyond the ‘reasonable proof’’ requirement in a great number of prosecutions and had never been amongst those jailed. Many of the convicted criminals were known to the policeman for various felonies, including trafficking of endangered creatures, smuggling contraband, sanctions busting, securities fraud and embezzlement and armed robbery. Somehow Dudley had remained at liberty while others paid for the crimes he had visibly helped to perpetrate.

  Even his real name was a fraud. Arthur Dudley had been a technical college teacher until he had ‘found’ the money to acquire a title from a company that sold them on behalf of impecunious members of the aristocracy. According to the file he had paid five thousand pounds for the Lordship of Caistor, in Lincolnshire. Armed with this title, he changed his name by deed poll from Rex Thompson to Arthur Selwyn Savage Dudley and thence to Lord Arthur Selwyn Savage Dudley. Somehow an MBA in Computer Sciences became attached to his name in place of the modest BA in languages he had actually earned. It seemed the Board of Governors of Cambridge College of Digital Computing was duly impressed by his qualifications and pedigree and offered him the post of Senior Lecturer in Telematics in 1994.

  On this occasion the Board had judged rightly. Dudley proved to be a visionary and a pioneer in the development of Machine to Machine, (M2M), Communications. Within a few years the College was on the front page of every industry magazine and many more far reaching esoteric publications devoted to the enablement of machines to talk to each other. A new industry was born and Dudley, now Professor of Connected Machines Eco System Studies, was one of the godfathers. Several start-ups were incubated in the College tech labs and one of these went on to be a dotcom darling in a billion dollar IPO. EzeTracker, a ubiquitous tracking system for labelling, following and finding anything that moved, won a multimillion dollar contract with the US Home Security Department in the post nine eleven anti-terrorist panic. Equipment, products and people could now be tracked from Spain to Singapore to China to New York by the insertion of a simple GPRS SIM into a plastic device attached to them or to a container. The markets loved it. After all, terrorism was a growth business.

  The brain child of this technology, Dewar’s student friend, Simon Pickford, had become, much to the policeman’s chagrin, an exceptionally wealthy man and, as he knew, greatly indebted to Dudley, his College Master and mentor. Dewar was not in the same research stream and had hardly known the man, since he was unfortunate enough to be involved with Personaliti, a social media start-up which failed miserably years before Facebook became a global phenomenon and was discarded by its backers almost before it was launched, which was when he opted to follow in his father’s footsteps in a career with the Metropolitan Police.

  There but for the grace…. he regretted, as he looked at the photograph of Dudley’s large smiling face and read the last paragraph of the bio. Apparently it was a badly concealed secret that the ‘professor’ had been asked to resign in 2003 after several complaints over a period of years in respect of his inappropriate relationships with both male and female students. It seemed the man was corrupt through and through.

  Dewar’s rapid rise to seniority in the force was due partly to his retired father’s brilliant reputation but also to his own instincts. Instinct to spot a potential connection and instinct to act decisively and quickly. He looked up his International Contacts list and called Chief Superintendent Johannes Hendricks, Head of the Homicide Unit in Johannesburg.

  London, England

  Lord Arthur Dudley was in a taxi on his way to meet the others at the Park Lane Hotel when he received the call from his contact in Marseille. “Cent mille de plus? A hundred thousand more? That’s about what I expected. It’s not a bad offer.”

  It was Friday16th and the shipment was due in on Sunday 18th. That left very little time to haggle any further over the commission. In any case, he reflected, a bird in the hand… “Très bien. Je suis d’accord. Very well, with the same pro rata compensation then I agree. You can confirm it to them immediately. But I want the additional funds in a different account. I’ll send you the details by email later today and you can forward them to Geneva.”

  Dudley ended the call and sat back in his seat, reflecting on the current situation. Even if the Leo Stewart business fell by the wayside, he would suffer no personal loss, in fact h
e had already appropriated a part of the funds budgeted for non-existent costs and he was insulated from any fall out. This morning’s arrangement would bring an additional substantial commission into his account in the Bahamas and more than compensate him for his efforts in the abduction transaction.

  Marbella, Spain

  Jenny had spent the last half hour speaking to Valerie Aeschiman and Philippe Jaquelot at the Banque de Commerce in Geneva. As she had feared, sending hundreds of thousands of dollars to South Africa was a virtually impossible task in these days of compliance and money laundering avoidance. They didn’t have a sister bank there and opening an account with a new bank would take weeks of complicated paperwork. Even then, making large withdrawals in cash would prove impossible. The only solution was to do what she had dreamt of last night; to take the money from Geneva to Johannesburg in cash. Mme Aeschiman was prepared to provide her with the cash but flying it down to South Africa would require hiring a private plane, to avoid the security checks. She put the matter aside for the moment. It was Friday and nothing could be done before Monday. We don’t even know for sure where Leo is. At least I have one option that works.

  She went back out to the terrace where Emma was typing away on her laptop. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m actually writing. Alan just reminded me that I’ve got a book to deliver by November 30th so I can get my next advance, otherwise Leo’s Christmas is going to be rather frugal.”

  “Alan Bridges, your publisher, stroke, on-off boyfriend?”

  Emma laughed sheepishly. “He called a few minutes ago. He’s feeling neglected and I don’t blame him. We haven’t spoken since I left for Johannesburg. I haven’t been in the mood.”

  “But all’s well on the Bridges Front?”

  “He should be so lucky. While I’ve been stressing and worrying my head off down here, he’s lapping up the sun in the South of France.”