The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set

by Christopher Lowery

  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 character 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.”

  “Do you think anything’s happened to Jonathon?” Jamie’s voice was tremulous.

  “I sincerely hope so. You need to get out of that relationship. Nwosu is a pathological murderer and the day he drops you it’s likely to be in a grave.”

  He drew the Land Cruiser up until his front bumper touched the Mercedes. It was now disabled in one direction, reverse, and the street was a cul de sac. A slight advantage. “Come on, Leo. I’ll introduce you to my wife and daughter, since you’ve been so inquisitive about them. Don’t make any noise.”

  Leo climbed out of the car, his heart thumping and his mouth dry. He knew they were walking into an ambush, but Coetzee didn’t even seem to be concerned. He mustered up all his courage. This isn’t the time to be a wimp, he said to himself. He’s got enough to worry about without me.

  They walked softly through the dark towards the farmhouse. Coetzee knew that whatever else happened, Leo would be safe. After all, he’s the only valuable commodity worth saving.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Marbella, Spain

 
Jenny was on an easy Jet flight. She was the only passenger in the plane. On every one of the other one hundred and fifty-five seats there was a brown paper parcel measuring thirty-two by thirteen by fifteen centimetres. Jenny knew that each parcel contained five thousand one dollar bills, stacked in four piles of one thousand two hundred and fifty notes, a total of seven hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. That was the final amount agreed with Coetzee for Leo’s return. This flight was the only solution she had found to make the money available in cash to Pedro Espinoza in South Africa.

  A cabin attendant in a black outfit poured her a glass of champagne. A young woman with a slim figure wearing a tight sweater that accentuated her beautifully-formed breasts. Jenny sensed she knew her but she wore a shawl over her head so her features couldn’t be seen. The champagne bottle carried the label ‘Newtown Brut’ and the wine spilled out into the glass as red as blood.

  When the passenger door opened Jenny walked out with an oversize suitcase containing all the cash. Fortunately the case had wheels, since it was so large and heavy she couldn’t lift it. She struggled along the concourse pulling the case behind her until she arrived at the top of a long flight of stairs. Scanning the crowded hall below she managed to pick out Pedro’s form. He was dressed in a smart military uniform with a large medal pinned to the breast of his tunic and wore a cap on his head with the motif ‘ARGS’. Standing next to him was a young woman in a black outfit, wearing a shawl. It was the cabin attendant, but Jenny still couldn’t recognise her from that distance. Between Pedro and the woman stood a young dark-skinned boy. It was Leo Stewart. He was standing stock still, looking straight ahead and showing no expression at all.

  Jenny somehow managed to carry the suitcase down the first of the stairs, until suddenly the handle came away in her hand. She watched helplessly as the case tumbled over and over down the staircase for what seemed like an age. Finally it landed, upright and undamaged at the bottom. The woman left the others and ran to the case as Jenny came down the stairs towards her. As she grabbed the now perfectly intact handle, she looked up the staircase and removed her shawl. Jenny gasped with shock. It was Leticia da Costa! She smiled at Jenny then turned and ran out of the hall with the bag rolling along behind her. Before Jenny could react, she had disappeared from view.

  She walked across to Pedro and shook his hand. “Well, the money’s gone,” she said. “But we’ve got Leo back and that’s all that counts. Well done Pedro.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that.” He turned to the boy. “Look.”

  Jenny stepped closer to Leo, only to realise it wasn’t him at all. It was a life size waxwork. A perfect replica of Emma’s son that had cost her seven hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.

  Jenny awoke in a sweat and looked at the illuminated clock on her bedside cabinet. It was four in the morning. She knew something had happened or was going to happen, but she didn’t know what and Jenny didn’t like not knowing things. Her dreams were often prescient but she never knew in exactly what way. She switched on the light, took her pad and scribbled down a few notes from her memory of the dream. A vague impression of something or someone else lingered at the edge of her subconscious but she couldn’t bring it back to mind. Espinoza had to be called as soon as possible. There were some things that she now knew for certain, but how could she convince him of the source of her knowledge? She switched off the light and tried to get back to sleep.

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  Coetzee walked up the driveway to the farmhouse, ensuring that Leo kept behind him at a safe distance. The door was ajar, the security chain hanging down with its bracket still attached. He quietly pushed it open and strolled into the living room leaving Leo in the hallway. Quickly taking in the scene, he was relieved to see Karen and Abby at the far end of the room. They looked unhurt but terrified. Nwosu was sitting near the dining area. He was holding his arm as if it was damaged. A huge black man, virtually a giant, was relaxing on the couch near the fireplace and another, hard faced, older character in shirtsleeves was sitting at the table, his pistol in front of him. No one was speaking. Half-empty dishes of food lay on the table.

  “Marius!” Karen shouted across the room. “Watch out, they’re armed and they want Leo.”

  Plato grabbed his pistol from the table and disengaged the safety. The Makarov would now fire once with a long, strong squeeze of the trigger then in single action with short, light trigger squeezes. He held it with his elbows on the table to give himself more stability and a better aim. “Are you Coetzee?”

  He walked past the table to the centre of the room and stood in front of the fireplace, where there was more space. “That’s right. And I’m unarmed.” Turning to face them he held his arms apart to show he wasn’t carrying a gun. “Who are you?”

  “Plato. I’m taking the kid to Zimbabwe.” When Coetzee didn’t respond, he went on, “Why have you got him? What’s your job?”

  Once again Coetzee said nothing, He was waiting for an opening. Being patient, biding his time. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Leo moving towards the fireplace. Stay out of it, kid, he willed him silently. You’re not the one who’s in danger.

  He grimaced when Karen shouted out, “He’s just an accountant. He doesn’t have anything to do with this. He just came to collect the money.” She obviously knows the whole story, he realised. Nwosu’s been spreading his poison.

  “Don’t be fooled by her. He’s a Special Forces guy. He was a major. He got a medal.” Nwosu tried to inveigle some good will from the two Zimbabweans. “He set the entire operation up. He’s the brains behind the whole abduction.”

  At this, Greg sat up and took notice. “Special Forces, eh? So you’re a tough guy, a white gangster beating up on poor black folk?” He spat on the floor. “Put that Makarov away, Plato. I’ll show you what I think of Special Services officers, bunch of fucking murdering cowards.” It was time to show Plato what he could do, time to get a little respect. He stood up and advanced on Coetzee, punching him in the chest.

  Plato said nothing. The feel of his index finger on the trigger gave him an exciting, almost sexual feeling of power. He didn’t want Greg to master Coetzee, he wanted to shoot him to death. To shoot him in the feet and knees, in the legs and the arms, in the stomach and the chest until he begged for the last bullet that would put him out of his misery. He waited to see what would happen.

  Coetzee fell away with the punch, turned and lashed out a kick at the Zimbabwean’s crutch, which was almost at the height of his shoulder. Greg caught his foot and twisted it, sending him crashing to the ground. On his knees, he grabbed the giant’s ankle and managed to bring him to the floor beside him, his arm around his neck, trying to get a head lock on his opponent to force him down to his height where he had some chance of inflicting damage to his eyes or throat.

  Greg’s great ham fist smashed down on Coetzee’s head and knocked him flat out on his back on the floor, arms and legs akimbo. The huge Zimbabwean knelt beside him and took his head between his hands, ready to twist and break his neck like a chicken. Leo looked on in horror, fearful of what was about to happen. Karen held Abby close, turning her face away from the awful scene being played out in front of them.

  “Do it slow and painful,” Plato barked across the room.

  Greg turned his head and looked at him scornfully. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, old man.”

  Coetzee pulled the short, flat handled throwing knife from the sheath strapped to the inside of his left wrist and plunged the needle-sharp blade up into the back of the huge man’s neck, exactly through the belly of the tattooed gazelle. The blade slid up alongside the spinal cord behind his ear and entered the cerebellum, the brain’s movement regulator. Greg put his hands to his head and screamed, a primal, animal scream, and his eyes rolled around in his head. Then like a grotesque giant marionette he fell sideways towards Coetzee.

  The South African hauled Greg’s massive body over himself just as Plato loose
d off a fusillade of shots, sending blood and flesh flying around the room from the now lifeless giant. Cartridge shells sprayed out behind him onto the floor. The full complement of eight shots spent, the Zimbabwean picked up a new magazine from the table in front of him.

  Leo grabbed the iron poker standing beside the fireplace and smashed it across the gunman’s back. He dropped the magazine onto the table and as he leaned forward to reach for it, in one swift, coordinated movement, Coetzee pushed Greg’s body away and pulled the blade from the dead man’s skull. He threw it with deadly aim straight into Plato’s chest.

  “Fuck!” The hit man looked down in amazement at the handle sticking from his shirt front and fell forward onto the table top.

  It took Coetzee, Leo and Jamie a half hour to bring the Mercedes to the door and haul the two bodies out of the house and into the car. Greg must have weighed a hundred and fifty kilos. Nwosu was now locked in the upstairs bedroom with the dogs. His wrist was excruciatingly painful and he was a nervous wreck after witnessing Coetzee’s one man killing-machine demonstration, wondering what might be in store for him. Karen and Abby, having seen him in action three years before, were remarkably calm after their ordeal, and set about cleaning the living room. The washing and scrubbing was a good form of therapy, but just being alive and together was enough.

  Karen was desperately worried about Leo’s abduction, but he seemed to be alright and Marius had saved the situation again, in such an infuriating fashion, so she didn’t question him, for now. He’d hugged them both and simply said. “I’m sorry, that was all my fault.” She knew she’d have to worm the story out of him, as usual, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. She’d have to bide her time. After what he’d accomplished he deserved some quiet.

  Coetzee drove for about five kilometres east along the R50 and turned off onto an old beaten track leading to a disused slate quarry. Karen had shown him the spot when they were fixing up the farmhouse. She used to cycle there to fish with her grandparents as a child, but it hadn’t improved with the years. It was now an unkempt wilderness with used syringes, condoms and even more disgusting rubbish littered around the flat, dirty plateau at the top of the cliff. He parked the Mercedes on the edge of a twenty metre slope going down to a wide stagnant pond at the bottom. He had removed all identification papers from the men and put their mobile phones in the boot, switched off. Finally ensuring there was nothing else except the two bodies inside the car or in the boot, he opened the windows slightly then put the gear shift into neutral and turned off the engine. He tied the steering wheel to the passenger door handle and released the hand brake, climbed out and pointed the remote at the car, locking the doors. With one push from his shoulder, the limousine rolled gently forward down the slope and into the pond. It floated out to the centre before slowly disappearing into the dank depths. It saddened Coetzee to see the beautiful machine meet such an end but there was no alternative. With any luck it wouldn’t be discovered for years, if ever. Jamie, subdued and frightened, was waiting in his Ford and they drove back to the house in silence.