Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, you’re sorry, are you? Really?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “We traced the plane and the pilot,” Mabula went on. “They must have flown in illegally from Mozambique. But we found no trace of the men you described. They seem to have vanished…”

  “You’re not suggesting we made them up?”

  “No. They exist all right; we already know that. And they won’t stop until they get what they want. You’re lucky we’re holding you here, where you are safe.” The way he said it, though, tapping his desk with a fat finger, she felt anything but safe. For a moment she wondered again whether it would just be easier to tell him about the money. But Bongani’s words kept ringing in her head. If she told him, what would stop him from killing her in a cell—or having her taken out into the bush to do it?

  She wondered if Michael had ended up that way.

  She was beginning to believe that was exactly what had happened to him.

  “Look, Ms. Nguyen, we know what this is all about. There’s a lot of money involved—illegal money used for smuggling. We can catch these criminals. But we must have that money.”

  “What sort of smuggling?” she asked.

  Mabula sat back. “I’ll ask the questions here. Now, where is the money?”

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about any money.”

  “Ms. Nguyen, don’t play games with me. You’re in very serious trouble.” He leaned back and assumed an almost satisfied expression. “Mr. Chikosi has already told me you have the money…”

  His manner didn’t fool her. She knew he was bluffing. If Bongani had broken down and told him, Mabula wouldn’t be bothering with her. Or was he just testing her? She didn’t reply.

  He sat staring at her.

  At last she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Don’t you think we would’ve given those men the money if we had it? That’s all they wanted. They were going to beat us up to get it!”

  He thought about this for a moment. At last he said: “No, I think you’re too smart for that. I think you realized that they’d kill you both once they had the money. So, you denied any knowledge of it—to keep yourselves alive…”

  Perhaps she’d underestimated Mabula once more. He’d hit on exactly what they had done. She couldn’t think of any reply. She was trapped—so she just shrugged.

  Suddenly he leaned forward. “It’s very important that we catch these people and get the money—this evidence—very quickly.” He rattled out his words. “There could, perhaps, be a reward…” He sat back again.

  “Reward?” she asked, genuinely confused.

  “Half the money. We split it.”

  She wasn’t tempted for a second. It had to be a trap. No policeman would make an offer like that. And if he was crooked, why would he settle for half if he could have the whole lot?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. How many times do I have to tell you, I know nothing about any money?”

  “Very well, Ms. Nguyen. I must remind you that you have admitted to killing a man under very suspicious circumstances. If you knew about the money, it would be a very convenient way of getting rid of the one man who could testify that you had it.”

  “He had a gun on us!” she protested. This was going exactly the way Bongani had said it would.

  “So you say.”

  He was about to add something else, but his phone rang.

  He picked it up and said something in the local language, and then switched to English. “Yes. Colonel Mabula speaking.”

  She could only hear one side of the conversation but guessed pretty soon who’d called.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t give you any information…Yes, but this is a multiple murder investigation, and we are not ready to share any information about it.…You are not listening. I won’t comment on who we’re holding here at the moment. You can phone again tomorrow and—”

  “I demand to talk to Mr. Malan!” Crys shouted out, hoping the caller would hear her.

  Mabula slammed the receiver down at once and glared at her for a long moment without saying a word.

  Then he picked up the phone again and held it out to her, but as she reached for it, he pulled it back and said, “You can make the call as soon as you tell me the truth.”

  “Dammit, Colonel. I’ve done nothing. You can’t keep holding me.” She sat back and glared back at him.

  “Very well. You’ll be held here on suspicion of murder until you decide to cooperate. I suggest you give it some careful thought. Things can get very unpleasant for you here. Do you understand?”

  She said nothing.

  He jumped up and leaned forward over the desk, shouting in her face. “I asked you if you understand!” She could feel flecks of saliva landing on her cheeks.

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  After a moment he sat back down. “Very well, then,” he said, completely calm once more. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She was led back to her cell, worried and exasperated.

  But as they passed reception, she heard a commotion at the desk. She looked up to see a white man arguing with the constable.

  She recognized his voice and accent at once. And she was one hundred percent sure that if he turned to look at her, she would see that his face was scarred with pockmarks.

  She grabbed the arm of the constable escorting her. “Take me back to the colonel,” she hissed. “Right now. I’ll tell him what he wants to know.”

  Chapter 19

  As they entered Mabula’s office, the constable started to say something, but Crys interrupted him.

  “He’s here! The man who attacked us. And shot your men. He’s at the front desk talking to the constable!”

  “What? Here in the police station? Is this some sort of trick?”

  But Mabula didn’t wait for her reply. He was already on his feet heading for the door. “You wait here,” he said. “Mtembo, stay with her.”

  For the first time, Crys felt a ray of hope. If Pockface was working with Mabula, he wouldn’t be at reception. He would be in Mabula’s office already, surely. Maybe she was wrong about their connection.

  But her hope soon chilled. If Pockface was here, he knew she was too. She was terrified that he’d find a way to get to her.

  Crys paced around Mabula’s office waiting for him to return. But the minutes dragged on, and there was no sign of the colonel. Mtembo was guarding the door so she couldn’t get out.

  Her fears started up again. How could Pockface be in the police station arguing with a policeman, when he’d murdered his colleagues and stolen their vehicle? He must have known that she and Bongani would have given a description of him. Was he that brazen? Perhaps he didn’t care; perhaps they were all in the same racket…

  When Mabula did come back, he went straight to his desk and sat down. “Take her back to the cell,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Crys asked, shocked. “Did you arrest him?”

  “I spoke to the constable. There was a white man here. He was reporting a cell-phone theft. The constable showed me the report.”

  “No, that’s wrong. I’m certain it was the right man. He had the same accent. Did you ask the constable about his face?”

  “Thank you for teaching me my job, Ms. Nguyen. He didn’t notice anything special about the man’s face. Now leave—I have work to do.”

  “No, I’m sure—”

  But before she could finish, the constable took her arm and pulled her away.

  When she’d been locked in the cell once more, Crys tried to think it through. Had she made a stupid mistake? She couldn’t remember what the man had been saying—she’d concentrated on his accent, not the words. Was it possible that seeing a white man—so unusual here—and he
aring the accent had made her jump to the wrong conclusion?

  Or was she right to be suspicious of Mabula? As she’d concluded before, if he was working with the Portuguese thugs, that would explain how they’d known so quickly where the plane had crashed. But what was Pockface doing in the police station, then? Certainly, Mabula had been surprised, even angry, and he’d gone off at once to investigate. How could she tell if Mabula had been spun a story about the cell phone, or if he was only upset because Pockface hadn’t bothered to keep out of sight?

  The one thing Crys was quite certain about was that Pockface hadn’t been in the police station to report a stolen cell phone. So, it came down to one thing: how certain was she that the man was Pockface?

  Crys turned it over and over in her head. If Bongani was right about police corruption, then Mabula would keep them alive just as long as it took him to get his hands on the money.

  There was no option. She had to get out before that happened. Once she was free, she’d be able to reach the Malans and the international press, and then they’d be able to help Bongani.

  There was only one problem: she had to escape from a cell in the middle of a building swarming with police.

  * * *

  Crys had done a lot of thinking by the time Petrus came in with her supper that evening. He handed her a plastic bag with some chocolate, a packet of ginger biscuits, a Coca-Cola, and a pretzel-shaped pastry soaked in syrup. That would’ve left him a lot of change out of a hundred dollars, but he didn’t offer it.

  “Can you stay here while I eat?” Crys asked, forcing a smile. “I could do with a little company.”

  He nodded at her and readily sat down on the bed. Perhaps he was hoping for another hundred-dollar bill. That was exactly what she wanted him to think.

  “Have my friends from the lodge been in touch? They must be wondering where I am…”

  “A white man did come asking about you earlier.”

  Her heart jumped. “Can you describe him? Was he Afrikaans? An older or a younger man?” She guessed it had to be Anton. Johannes would still be too sick to travel.

  He shook his head. “No. Not Afrikaans. And his face had lots of little scars. Maybe he was sick one time.”

  Crys nearly coughed up the mouthful of food she’d just swallowed. She had no doubts left now. It had been Pockface at reception, and someone had lied about the cell-phone theft report—probably Mabula himself.

  Pockface was looking for her.

  It looked like Petrus was the only chance she had. She hoped he had a price she could afford out of what was stuffed inside the bed.

  “Look Petrus, I have to get out of here. I’m not a criminal. The colonel is only holding me because he needs someone to blame for the deaths of his policemen. I swear to God I didn’t kill them. He hasn’t charged me with anything—you can look at your records. And what’s he done to catch their killers? Nothing.”

  Petrus looked at her impassively.

  “You said maybe you could help me.”

  He didn’t answer for what seemed like forever. Then he shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I can pay. I have cash. More U.S. dollars…”

  “How much?” he said almost instantly. Crys felt a tingle of excitement. He’d nibbled at the bait.

  She hesitated. “Here? About a thousand dollars.”

  She could see he was tempted.

  “You’ve got to help me, Petrus. You can have the money. All of it. If you don’t, I’ll never get out of here. And I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Where’s the money? Show me.”

  She shook her head. “I have it. That’s all that matters.”

  Petrus picked up the tray and headed for the door without another word.

  When he was gone, Crys thought about what an idiot she’d been. He’d go straight to Mabula and tell him everything. Then they’d search her cell, take the money, and charge her with attempting to bribe a policeman, on top of everything else. Her last option would be snatched away from her.

  Crys had a bad night, tossing and sweating in the heat. She dozed, then woke up seized by panic—like someone had their hands around her throat, pushing tighter and tighter. She didn’t know what to do; she didn’t know who to trust. She wished she’d just given Mabula the damned briefcase of money when he was at the camp. She wished she’d never spoken to Petrus. She wished she’d never come to Africa.

  * * *

  In the morning, Crys was lying on her bed, staring at the cracked, stained ceiling, in complete despair when Petrus unlocked the door.

  He was carrying a tray with the usual pap, and she saw that he’d brought her a jam donut too. She stared at it for a moment, as if she’d never see such a thing before. Then she looked up at him. He was leaning toward her.

  “I want that money,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

  He’s bitten, Crys thought, energy shooting through her body and making her sit up straight. She’d have to play it carefully.

  She shook her head. “Only when I get out of here.”

  He stared at her for a few moments. Was he going to insist on the money in advance? It seemed to take him ages to decide.

  At last he spoke. “You must be ready tonight. I’ll tell you what to do when I bring your supper. But I must have the money before I let you out.”

  * * *

  Around eleven that morning, Mabula summoned Crys again.

  “I’m not going to say another word without a lawyer,” she said as she walked in, not giving him a chance to speak.

  His mouth formed a cold smile. “Only when you tell me where the money is.”

  “And I need to see the doctor again, to change my dressing.”

  He shook his head. “First tell me where the money is. I know you know.”

  She didn’t respond. It was chilling being faced with the truth like this.

  “You know you’re making it hard on your friend Bongani. Tell me where the money is, and you both can go. No charges, no problems.”

  She just looked at him and didn’t say a word. She worried that if she did open her mouth, she would give him what he wanted, and then she’d lose whatever advantage she had…and may never see the light of day again.

  He waited for a moment and then slammed his hand on the desk so hard that it shook. Crys managed not to flinch. “Tomorrow,” he shouted. “Then you will tell me. One way or the other, you will tell me. Take her away.”

  * * *

  As darkness fell outside, and the filthy little square of window dimmed, Crys waited impatiently for Petrus. She kept checking her watch, and soon she became convinced that something had happened to prevent him coming—something that involved Mabula and Pockface.

  But at last he arrived with the tray.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “It’s the normal time.” He frowned at her.

  She bit her lip. She needed to get a hold on herself.

  “Now listen,” he began. “You must be ready at four o’clock in the morning. I’ll let you go. Outside the station, go right down the street until you reach Shimati Road. You can get a minibus taxi there. I’ll say you screamed, and when I came, you tricked me and locked me in.”

  “Won’t you be in trouble?” It seemed far too easy.

  He shrugged. “I want half the money now.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll get it all when you let me go. Otherwise you won’t do it…”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Who would be the first to blink?

  “Okay,” Petrus said. “Four o’clock.”

  He must need the money as much as Bongani, she thought, and wondered how many people he was looking after.

  After he’d gone, Crys sat and thought. This was the last chance to change
her mind. As of then, she’d done nothing wrong except lie about the money. Even Ho’s death was an accident. She had a witness in Bongani, and there was plenty of evidence to show Ho was an armed and dangerous criminal—who’d already killed the pilot before he turned the gun on her.

  But by morning, if she went through with her plan, she’d be a fugitive, guilty of assaulting a policeman and escaping from custody. Mabula would come after her with everything he had. And at the same time, she’d need to keep away from Pockface, who was somewhere out there, waiting for his chance to grab her.

  Crys was also worried about Petrus. She’d seen that he always wore a gun. How was she supposed to get it away from him? For her escape to look convincing, she’d have to take it. And he’d never let her do that.

  In fact, what if Petrus had no intention of letting her go once he had the money? The gun would be his way of keeping her quiet—maybe permanently. She couldn’t trust anyone. Everything she did came with a big risk.

  Crys was tempted to call the whole thing off, but now that she knew that Pockface had actually been in the police station, she realized she had no choice. Locked up there, she was a sitting duck.

  She would just have to make Petrus’s unlikely story work—in her own way—a version of his plan that he wasn’t going to like.

  Before Crys went to bed, she laid the blanket on the floor and tried to twist into a half lotus. She succeeded, but barely. Her body was very tense, and her shoulder still hurt. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and began saying her mantra. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng…

  Slowly her body relaxed, and her mind rid itself of some of its stress. Eventually, she tried to get some rest, but she needed to be up before Petrus came to wake her, and she was nervous of oversleeping. She tossed and turned, wondering if she should go through with her plan, but she knew there was really no option. She had to.

  She slept, but lightly, and only for a few hours, and she was wide-awake at half past three.

  She ripped the already tattered sheet into strips and laid them out on the bed. Then she dug the money out of the mattress and waited.