The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set

by Christopher Lowery

  “It’s a small farming town in the east suburbs of Johannesburg,” his companion showed him on the iPad.

  “I see. So Nwosu and Coetzee are both lying to us, but it seems that neither knows that the other is in contact, nor what they are saying. It’s possible that Coetzee could be heading there with the boy, since the fastest route from Phalaborwa is via Polokwane, down the N1. But I’m at a loss to decide which of their conflicting histoires is closest to the truth, if either.”

  “I’m trying to find the location in Delmas. If I put in the exact coordinates then look on the street map, there’s only one property it can be. See?” The photograph showed a long empty road leading out of Delmas with one large house at the end, bordered by empty fields. “It looks like a farm, there are several buildings all grouped together.”

  “Can you find the exact address and discover who lives there?”

  “It’s on Groot Street, but I can’t find the number. There are only four houses at the beginning of the street and this one right at the end. I’ll pull up the street directory.”

  The Voice poured out two more glasses of Burgundy as the woman continued the search.

  “Here we are. It can only be the first or last street number, so we’ve got a choice of number one, that’s a Veterinary Office, or number five, Ms Karen Spellman. What do you think?”

  “Is there any chance of finding her on the Internet?”

  “I doubt it, considering there are six point nine billion people who aren’t on it. But I’ll look anyway.” Her fingers travelled quickly over the iPad keyboard. “She is in here, lots of entries. She’s a journalist in Johannesburg, quite well known, it seems. Let me open this one about an award she won.”

  The Voice turned in distaste at the exclamation that followed. “I don’t believe it! You really are the luckiest man in the world. Look at this.”

  “You know I hate reading those screens. Please quote it to me without undue excitement.”

  “This is from November, 2007. Karen Spellman was awarded the runner up prize for the Taco Kuiper award. That’s a journalistic award for investigative reporting, apparently. It says here that she wrote a series of articles on the challenges of post-apartheid hardships suffered by the blacks. The articles were instigated by her capture in the previous March by white supremist gunmen in a school in Alexandra, along with a group of black teachers, schoolchildren and their parents.”

  “I’m sorry, but I fail to understand how…..”

  “Please just wait. The kidnapping was foiled by a major in the Special Forces who captured the supremists single handed and saved the lives of all of the hostages. Would you like to know who he was?” This last question was issued in a smug tone.

  “I can hardly control my excitement.”

  “Major Marius Coetzee! And, before you interrupt again, he is Ms Spellman’s husband!”

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  Nwosu made himself comfortable in an armchair and closed his eyes. Everything was back on track and he could get a well-deserved rest. He let his mind drift to Jamie, the money and Mozambique.

  R 71, near Gravelotte, Limpopo, South Africa

  “New orders from Harare. Do you want to stop?” Greg stopped scribbling and held the phone away in case the driver exploded. He had driven in a state of silent rage for the last thirty minutes, the atmosphere in the car becoming more frigid by the kilometre.

  “Where is it this time? Disneyworld? Just tell me where and if I don’t have to turn around again, we’ll go.”

  “It’s a place called Delmas, east of Joburg. We’ve got the name, street and house number, everything. They’ll all be there. Coetzee, the cop and the kid. There’s a woman there as well, they said. It actually sounds right this time.”

  “How the fuck do you know whether it’s right or wrong? Wait.” He entered the destination into the Satnav. “I’m taking a left here and going down past Lydenburg to the N4. It cuts out Polokwane and Pretoria and it’ll be faster than going through the toll stations. Tell them we’ll be there in five hours or so. I’ll give it this one last try and if it’s crap, we’re going home.”

  Greg relayed the message and sat back, trying to get comfortable. His stomach was aching with hunger and he was full of gas. He needed to ask for a pit stop, but it wasn’t a good time. He hated this old man.

  London, England

  “Well that was almost as enjoyable as the original production at Sadler’s Wells.” The Voice switched off the TV. “Were you ever fortunate enough to see it?”

  “No. You know I haven’t been in England for very long. It’s a controversial version. Was it a success?”

  “You mean the prince and the male swan pairing? It was much more successful than the traditional production. It ran forever in London and New York and is still produced all over the world. I personally prefer the story like this. It’s somehow much more nostalgic.”

  “I suppose that should tell me something about ballet lovers. But I’m not a highbrow, so I’ll take your word for it.”

  The Voice laughed. “Touché,” he said. “Now it’s time to conclude our business for the day. Please send the edited photograph to Ms Stewart’s email address without any comment whatsoever. If she’s still awake she will worry about it all night. If she’s already asleep I’d like it to be the first thing she sees tomorrow morning, by which time her son will be once more in our possession.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you talking so cruelly. It’s not like you.”

  “I confess that I am becoming rather frustrated with this business. What seemed like a fairly simple plan has become all too complicated. I dislike complications and I dislike schoolboys and I shall be very glad when we terminate the programme successfully.”

  The woman registered this remark without comment. She pressed the Send button.

  He heard the familiar ‘whoosh’ as the photo left the laptop, on its way via the Philippines address to Emma’s mailbox. “Excellent, well done! Now, it’s quite late so you are welcome to stay the night if it is more convenient for you.”

  “I’d rather not if you don’t mind. Our funder is arriving tomorrow and I want to be presentable to give assurance as to how the funds are being spent.”

  He masked his disappointment and helped her into her jacket, carefully positioning himself for the most impressive view of her magnificent bosom. Lord Arthur Dudley was bisexual but he appreciated beauty in all its forms, especially in the male or female physique. Never having seen the woman’s unclothed breasts was a constant source of disappointment and of future promise. He walked her to the apartment door. “Goodnight, Esther. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.”

  “Goodnight, Arthur, sleep well.” His companion gave him a peck on the cheek and walked up the street towards Bayswater.

  Dudley watched her gently swaying hips until she disappeared from sight then came back into the apartment. He unlocked the door to his private office, a generously sized room which no one else, not even his Philippine cleaning lady, who spoke very little English, had ever entered. The walls above the height of his desk were papered around with newspaper articles and photographs of all kinds. There were many erotic images of young men and women, mostly theatrical looking adolescents, all with fair hair. The news articles were dedicated to various felonies involving contraband, trafficking and fraudulent or financial crimes, mostly in Europe, but some in more far flung places like Singapore, South America and Australia. There were reports of the events themselves and in many cases the results of trials and prosecutions. The earliest items were from 1998 and the latest in January of the current year.

  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 an
d 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 your 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 gang
ster 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.