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 necessarily 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?”
“I could do that. Why do you need it?”
“I’m sorry to say, but it’s a matter of money, as are so many things these days. Our partners agree to make the additional payment to you, which is comforting, but being rather less naïve than myself, they would like to receive what is, I believe, known as proof of life, a photograph taken today.”
Coetzee weighed up his options. He still needed to buy as much time as he could. This was one way of gaining some time and might even produce some money into the bargain. “I’ll take one and send it to you now,” he answered. “Give me the email address. I haven’t got my laptop handy.” He waited, hoping that the Voice might make another tiny error, but it didn’t happen.
He wrote down the Azerbaijan address that they had always used. “Right. It’ll be with you in five minutes.”
“Thank you, Mr Coetzee.” The Voice rang off.
He picked up the newspaper and went back outside. “Right, Leo. I need another photo. Put that chair back up against the wall. Things are starting to happen. It won’t be long now.” He tried to sound confident but inside he was feeling very anxious. He would have been more worried if he’d known that he was about to make a mistake. A very big mistake.
Marbella, Spain
At six forty-five, Leticia received a call on her mobile. “Bonsoir chéri,” she answered then continued in Spanish. “Where are you? It’s Patrice”, she mouthed to Jenny and walked out of the kitchen to talk to her fiancé.
Encarni had gone home and Emilio was watching television in the living room. Emma was upstairs, resting from the ordeal of keeping up appearances for the whole afternoon.
“How is he?” Jenny asked when she returned.
“Very tired, I think. This big transaction he’s working on is taking it out of him. He’s coming home tomorrow, so you’ll see him at the weekend.”
“Where is he now?”
“In London, I think. I never know where he is when he’s running around like this.”
“They told me at the bank he was off on another trip. Was he only here for a day?”
“I suppose so, but it’s very hard to keep up with his travelling.”
Leticia’s voice had a dejected note, unlike her usual bubbly self. Jenny decided to drop the subject. Strange that he comes to Marbella then flies up to London, she reflected. It’s not exactly the shortest route.
Leticia said, “Do you think you could find the time to help me with something tomorrow? I mean with Emma being here and everything.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Well, you’re so clever with money and banks and I’m not. There’s some papers I’d like to ask you about, financial papers.”
“We can look at them now if you like.”
“Not tonight. I have to put Emilio to bed, he’s tired with all the travelling. Perhaps in the morning?”
“Very well. I hope it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Probably not but I’d like your advice.” Leticia brought her son to say goodnight and they went along to their apartment.
Jenny watched them disappear along the corridor, a worried frown on her face. She went upstairs to check on her sister.
London, England
The Voice’s laptop pinged. It was the message from Coetzee. It simply said, Photo attached, as per your request. I’ll contact you again when we manage to meet up with your colleagues. MC.
The attachment was a snap of Leo sitting against a wooden wall, looking very fed up. He was holding a copy of the Mail and Guardian, in front of him, folded so that the front page displayed that morning’s headlines and date.
In between Leo’s hands was the local news headline, Suspicious Death in Mayfair.
“It seems that our Mr Coetzee has a sense of humour. A gentle reminder of the increasing body count in this business.”
“Here. Let me blow it up so we can take a good look at it.” His companion zoomed the photo up to twice its size and moved the view to the top of the page. “That’s better. Thursday, July 15th 2010. It’s definitely today’s paper, but we knew that from the headline. Wait. There’s something scrawled in the top margin.” A moment later the faint handwriting became legible. It read, Olifantsrivier Lodge.
“Well, well! It appears that our Mr Coetzee has been rather careless. He has the boy and now we know exactly where they are. I think it’s time for another call to Harare,” said the Voice. “Well done to your inquisitive nature.”
Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa
Leo had found a weapon. An unimpressive weapon, lighter than the torch that had cracked Blethin’s skull and more difficult to wield, but a weapon no less. He held it tightly in his right hand as he came quietly out to the terrace. I’m sorry, Marius, he apologised silently, but I have to get that mobile again.
Coetzee was smoking a cheroot. Still in his bathing shorts, he was standing on the edge of the patio looking thoughtfully down into the river. He had put his Kindle away at a very critical moment in Emma’s book. Tory West was perilously near to becoming the victim of a violent death and he wanted to enjoy the chapter later, when this mess was over and he could relax for a while.
Now, he was waiting. Just waiting for something to happen, as he had done so often in his life. Learning to master his impatient nature had been one of the benefits gained from his time in the Special Forces. Long periods of waiting, usually to no avail, listlessly smoking and playing cards with his mates, wondering why the hell he was doing this, suddenly interrupted by mad, frenetic, adrenaline-pumping mayhem; the only overriding motivation being to kill or be killed.
He had left all that behind and he didn’t miss it at all. This was different, no mayhem involved, just a financial negotiation. As long as he could stave off the Voice’s hounds, the ball was now in Emma’s court and she had to respond. No point in sending another message until she reacted. It wouldn’t take long; she was desperate to get her son back and there seemed to be money around. He was beginning to suspect it was her sister who had it.
A reflection in the water made him turn around, too late to prevent the heel of his own hiking boot smashing into the side of his head. Dazed by the blow, he fell backwards into the river.
Leo dropped the boot and ran into Coetzee’s bedroom. Found the car key in the trousers lying on the bed and raced outside to the Land Cruiser. He knew the tank was full because he’d helped Coetzee empty two jerry cans of diesel fuel into it. First he took Blethin’s mobile from the glove compartment and shoved it into his pocket. Then he put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing! He tried again. Still nothing! His mother didn’t have an automatic car and he wasn’t aware that the ignition wouldn’t fire unless he pressed on the footbrake
“That was very unfriendly, Leo. I might have drowned if you’d knocked me unconscious.” Coetzee had pulled open the door. He was dripping water from head to foot and holding his bruised temple.
“Kidnappers have to expect that kind of treatment, Marius. You should know that.”
“Come on, give me the key and get out. I’ll forgive you on this occasion but my patience is wearing very thin, so no more heroics or I might have to show you some tricks we learned in the Special Forces.”
Leo climbed down from the vehicle. He hadn’t really expected to be able to get away but it was a good cover for the recuperation of the phone. Coetzee seemed to have forgotten about it. He said, “Remember the war, Marius. Every prisoner had to attempt to escape and if they failed, to die in the attempt. Or try again whenever they had the chance. Don’t count on me not trying every chance I get.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Leo. Right now you’re under my protection. You’re safe, because you’re valuable to me. The minute you leave you become vulnerable, to the villains who are looking for you and to the police. They may already have been advised about your tendency to kill and wound everyone you meet. Just think about your options. Apart from me, they’re not great.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa
Nwosu checked his Vektor pistol once more and shoved it into the holster on his right hip. He was wearing the spare uniform that his boyfriend had brought for him with the gun from his apartment and his left arm was supported by a sling, carefully made and arranged by Jamie. He tended to preen in front of the younger man when he was in uniform. His partner couldn’t resist his authoritative appearance. He was a good looking, charismatic man, even with his bruised nose and half-closed black eye, and took advantage of it whenever he could, especially with his male friends.
Jamie was seventeen years old, tall, slender and olive-skinned, with Mediterranean rather than African features. Lying back on the couch in just his shorts, he had soft feminine skin and hardly any hair on his body. Nwosu could barely restrain himself.
He had also brought a new prepaid mobile. Nwosu stored Jaimie’s number along with several others in it. “Give me your phone. I’ve got to get moving.” He put the new mobile number into the boy’s phone. “That’s so you can recognise this number if I get into trouble.”
“Are you expecting more trouble, Jonathon? You know I worry about you.”
“Where I’m going? No chance. I’ll call you to arrange our flights when everything’s under control. It’ll be either tomorrow or Saturday, I’ve got everything planned perfectly, so don’t worry.” He wasn’t as confident as he sounded, but the truth was he didn’t have a choice. The money was still in his bank account when he’d
checked earlier, but he knew he wouldn’t live to spend it if he failed to deliver the boy. Either this plan works or I’m in really deep shit.
It was seven o’clock and dark. The drive should take about an hour at that time of night. The chances of them being in the house at eight o’clock were also high. He hadn’t called, it might have caused them to worry, but he would wait in the car if there was no one home. He had time.
He kissed Jamie goodbye and went out to his Ford Escort, small, reliable and, fortunately for his present handicapped condition, automatic. It was too risky to take his own police vehicle in case he came across a patrol or another official car and had to explain why he was injured and away from his station. The tank was full and a backpack with his spare clothing and toilet items was on the back seat, just in case. He pulled the gear shift into Drive with his right hand and drove off into the night.
Tzaneen, Limpopo, South Africa
The black Mercedes was about one hundred kilometres from Phalaborwa, on the R71, a secondary road leading from Polokwane. Plato had chosen to drive as far and fast as possible on the N1 then go east across country. In fact, the drive wasn’t too bad at that hour. Traffic was light and he was able to drive at a hundred. He expected to get to his destination in an hour and a half.
Greg was listening to music on his earphones when his mobile vibrated just before seven o’clock. He listened then said, “Hang on,” and turned to the driver. “Can you find the Olifantsrivier Lodge? It’s a tourist hotel in Phalaborwa, right on the river.”
The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set Page 87