by L. A. Larkin
‘That’s your job to find out. One of your jobs.’ Sutton pops the photos back in the envelope. ‘The other is to keep Wolfe under control.’
‘Sir, I can’t–’
‘Let’s just say if that journalist uncovers the Chancellor’s relationship with Sukletin or anything else damaging to this government, it will not be good for your career. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your boarding pass and itinerary.’ Sutton hands him a smaller envelope. ‘South African police have assured us of their complete co-operation. Your contact is Major-General Msiza. His details are in there.’
‘How much does he know?’
‘Just that we’re investigating Mazwi Ximba in connection with possible money laundering involving a British citizen. Nothing more. Keep it that way.’
Casburn expects the car to stop, their meeting over, but it seems Sutton has more to say.
‘If she won’t listen to you, will she listen to Vitaly Yushkov?’
Casburn’s grip on the envelope tightens. ‘I have no idea where he is, sir.’
‘But you know people who do.’ Sutton narrows his eyes and gives Casburn a penetrating stare.
Casburn might work for Sutton, but he’d be an idiot to piss off the Secret Intelligence Service. So he avoids the question. ‘Yushkov would rather roast in Hell than listen to me.’
‘That’s your problem. Just get her to stop. Yushkov’s number is in the envelope.’
Casburn pockets the envelope, although he’d rather tear it to shreds. In his mind’s eye, he sees the abandoned warehouse, the blistering hot lamps pointed at Yushkov whose wrists and ankles are zip-tied to a chair, his body pulverised like steak with a tenderising hammer, out of his mind with the sodium pentothal he’s been injected with, begging them to save his sister. He still hears Yuskov’s sobs. Still sees the tears seeping from the man’s swollen eye. He knows he should have done more to stop the interrogation spiralling out of control and he’ll never forget the video he saw later, of Yushkov’s sister’s brains sprayed over a wall somewhere in Russia.
Casburn suddenly realises the car has stopped and Sutton’s driver has opened the door for him. He gets out onto a damp pavement.
‘You report to me and me alone on this one,’ Sutton calls out.
13
Johannesburg, South Africa
Olivia Wolfe glances up at the domed roof of the arrivals hall at Johannesburg’s O.R. Tambo International Airport, then down to the barriers separating arriving travellers from those who await them. She spots Mike Thusago leaning on the rail: shaved head, high forehead, average height, slim and muscular: a marathon runner’s build. He straightens at the sight of her and waves enthusiastically.
‘Welcome to South Africa.’
‘Good to see you, Mike.’
‘And you.’ He nods at the thirty-litre capacity backpack slung over her shoulder. ‘I’m guessing no checked luggage, right?’
‘Everything I need is here,’ Wolfe pats her go-bag.
It is one of two backpacks she keeps ready to go at a moment’s notice. One is packed for colder climates and the other for hotter. As it’s autumn in Johannesburg, she’s got the cold-climate bag with her, plus a few lighter items of clothing. Hidden in the folds of a shoulder strap, beneath a metal buckle, is a tiny lock-pick, which has so far fooled airport security screening. A metal water bottle is clipped to the exterior and doubles as a club should she need it. In her toiletries bag, is the plastic knife disguised as a comb that Butcher gave her. She has learnt from past experience that her inquiries can bring on violent retaliations, so it pays to be prepared.
She follows Thusago through the crowded terminal, down an escalator, up another one, and then out into the startlingly bright morning sunshine.
‘It’s good to get out of that stuffy plane. Thanks for picking me up, by the way. I hope you haven’t taken time off work?’
‘Not a problem.’
With the sun in her eyes she almost fails to notice Dan Casburn walking briskly towards a marked South African police car. A uniformed officer holds a rear door open for him.
‘Would you believe it,’ Wolfe mumbles. She halts and grabs Thusago’s arm. ‘Give me a moment. It’s best he doesn’t know you’re helping me.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A British detective.’
‘I’ll wait inside by the escalator.’
Wolfe jogs over to Casburn, calls his name. He turns and shows no surprise at her appearance.
‘You knew I was on this flight, didn’t you?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Of course.’
‘What are you doing here, Dan?’
‘I’m co-operating with the South African police. And you?’
‘I’m following a lead. Probably talking to the same people as you. Why don’t we work together? We’ll get a lot more done that way.’
‘You don’t listen, Olivia. When I said you should butt out, it was for your own good. The best thing you can do is go on safari, then go home. Tell Moz there is no story. You made a mistake.’
‘Why would I do that?’
He flicks a look at her that she could almost mistake for concern. ‘It’s not worth it, Olivia. Trust me on this.’
Perhaps she’s reading him wrong, but Casburn seems edgy. Does he know about the Msiza–Ximba connection? A corrupt senior police officer would make things very difficult for him. On the other hand, if Casburn doesn’t know about Msiza’s link to Ximba and proceeds to tell him everything, then the person behind the criminal activity funded by the secret account will go to ground, and Wolfe will have made a wasted trip.
‘Dan, can I have a word in private?’ She glances at the SAPS officer watching her and Casburn.
‘Make it quick.’
They step away from the car. She keeps her voice down.
‘It’s possible a senior SAPS officer is involved.’ Wolfe doesn’t want to be specific, because Thusago’s informant may prove unreliable. ‘Like the kind of senior officer you are possibly going to meet.’
Casburn’s features harden. ‘Oh, of course, there has to be a corrupt cop involved, doesn’t there? What is it with you media types? You can’t get through the day without some kind of cop-bashing.’
‘All I’m saying is–’
‘Leave it, will you?’
He walks to the car and gets in the back.
‘At least tell me where you’re staying,’ she calls.
‘No chance.’
Wolfe watches the police car drive off. One thing is for certain. She’s in the right city.
Thusago’s black VW Polo lurches forward a few feet, then stops. A petrol tanker’s compression brakes hiss. In the left-hand lane, a battered old pick-up with ten black workers in the open tray at the back spews dark fumes from a broken exhaust pipe. They’ve been in a traffic jam since they left the airport.
‘You want to go home, shower, get something to eat?’ Thusago asks. ‘We can then work out a plan.’
‘I’d rather crack on. I only have three days.’ Wolfe had slept most of the thirteen-hour flight so she’s buzzing with energy. She fills him in on the British Virgin Islands account, and its two signatories: Harold Sackville and Mazwi Ximba.
Thusago laughs nervously. ‘You’re telling me a Soweto school teacher has a share of two-hundred-and-seventy-two million rand! You have to be joking!’
‘I’m not. Interesting, isn’t it? The cleaner at Ximba’s school. Mama Gcina? I’d like to talk to her first.’
‘She may not want to talk to you.’
‘But you’ll vouch for me, right?’
‘Sure, but I can’t change the colour of your skin.’
‘I’d still like to try.’
‘Okay, I’ll take you to Soweto.’
‘How much time can you give me?’
‘As much as you need.’
Wolfe gives him a quizzical look. ‘How come?’
He shrugs.
‘So, when are you back on du
ty?’
‘I guess I should come clean.’ He pauses. Glances at her.
She waits.
‘I’m… on sick leave.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
His hands on the steering wheel have a tremor. ‘They say it’s post-traumatic stress. I can’t go back to work until the psychiatrist gives me the all clear.’
‘Oh Mike, I’m so sorry. What brought this on?’
An uncomfortable pause.
‘We were called out to a home invasion. The parents murdered, two kids still alive. The suspects were holed up inside. They fired at us. So many times.’ His voice is shaky. Distant. ‘My partner… he was shot. He died.’
‘That’s not your fault.’
‘It is,’ he says, snapping his head around. ‘I froze. I couldn’t fire my weapon.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘They’re saying it’s PTSD. Almost every day there’s a shooting.’ He shakes his head. ‘Now I’m going stir crazy, Olivia. I have too much time… to think… about him. His death. I need to keep busy.’
‘Are you getting help? Counselling?’
He nods. ‘Yes, but it achieves nothing. I have nightmares. Every night I see him lying in a pool of blood.’
Their car comes to a stop and so does their conversation. She feels so very sorry for him. She’s known army personnel with PTSD. Some years back in Afghanistan she was imbedded with a British regiment. When their tour was over, three of the squaddies she got to know returned home well and truly fucked up, their behaviour erratic, their mood swings extreme. She has no idea how severe Thusago’s PTSD is, but he is her only contact in Johannesburg and she needs his help.
‘Shit, Mike. I wish you’d told me this before I hopped on a plane.’
14
They turn off the freeway and head for Soweto, passing a roadhouse and pizzeria offering curry bunny chow. Many of the houses are little more than loosely constructed sheds, whereas others are brick, with watered gardens and security grilles on doors and windows. Children on their way to school walk in the road, chatting and laughing. Beyond an arid patch of empty land a small hill appears to be smoking, but as they draw near she sees the hill is in fact a mound of dumped rubbish that’s being burned.
‘How does a British cabinet minister even know a Soweto teacher?’ Thusago asks. ‘Have they met?’
‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out.’
‘This is bad money, Olivia. Ximba won’t talk. If he does, he’s a dead man.’
‘If your informant is right and Ximba really does want out, maybe I can rattle his cage enough to get him to tell us what’s going on?’
‘He won’t talk without guaranteed protection for him and his family.’
‘Is there somebody you trust to give him that protection?’
Thusago thinks about this. ‘Yes. But we’d need compelling evidence. A confession, or proof the money is funding criminal activity.’
‘What did you find out about Mazwi Ximba?’
‘Like me, born in Soweto. He studied hard, one of very few of his generation who made it to university. Still lives here, in a newer area called Diepkloof. But it’s no mansion, Olivia. It’s the kind of house a black headmaster of a poorly-funded school would have. He drives a two-year-old Toyota Corolla. Nothing flash. No criminal record. Never been overseas.’
‘Then he’s the perfect cut-out. A respected pillar of the community with no criminal record.’
Deep in thought, she curls her tongue and plays with the stud in it. ‘Say it is money laundering, what illegal activity could generate such huge sums?’
‘It is maningi mali. Big money. Maybe conflict diamonds, drugs, or perhaps poaching. If I were a betting man, I’d say a drug cartel is behind it.’
They drive past a wall with a hand-painted sign announcing a ‘Tour Stop’. A minibus has pulled over and a dozen or so tourists are taking photos of the neighbourhood. There’s also a red arrow pointing to ‘The Museum’, but all Wolfe can see is an old woman sitting outside a ramshackle house.
‘This is Orlando East. Not far to go,’ says Thusago.
For a while, she gazes out of the car window, watching the people of Soweto. Her mind wanders to Christmas Eve, when she’d said goodbye to Yushkov as he boarded a container ship to South Africa. That was four months ago. He may still be in the country. Perhaps even in Johannesburg? Her hand moves to her jacket pocket and she traces the bulge of the Nokia phone. He gave it to her when he left England. He warned her to use it only in an emergency. It has just one number programmed into it: his. But there is no emergency, just her desire to see him. Her thoughts turn to their twenty-four hours in a house in west London; to Yushkov humming as he used the espresso machine; to his warm body, holding her close; to the tenderness of his touch; to his raucous laughter at some throwaway comment she’d made. Hidden from the people hunting them, she had imagined the house was theirs and that they were a normal couple living normal lives.
Wolfe takes the Nokia out of her pocket, switches it on and stares at the only number in the contacts list.
Thusago glances at her, then the phone. ‘Something troubling you?’
‘No,’ she says, putting the Nokia away.
‘You are unsure if you should call somebody?’
Wolfe smiles. ‘Maybe.’
‘Can this person help you?’
‘It’s personal.’ How much should she tell Thusago about Yushkov? ‘If I contact him, I could put him, and maybe us, in danger.’
‘How?’
‘There are people who want him dead. His own people.’
Thusago nods slowly. ‘Is this Vitaly Yushkov?’
Wolfe shoots him a suspicious look.
‘I am not reading your mind,’ says Mike, amused. ‘Your relationship with him was all over the news.’
‘It was mostly lies, and embarrassing photographs.’
‘But it cost you dearly?’
She nods. ‘I was accused of terrible things. Humiliated. And it doesn’t stop.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘When people look at me, they don’t see Olivia Wolfe, journalist. They see the woman who made love to a man many still believe is a Russian spy. Even my colleagues whisper behind my back. The pictures of us making love still circulate.’ Wolfe gnaws at a fingernail and rips it off. ‘One day, I’ll find the son of a bitch who took those photos. One day.’
‘There is one rule for men and one for women when it comes to sex. You were condemned unjustly, Olivia.’
‘Thank you, Mike. I appreciate you saying that.’
‘But you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.’ He pauses. ‘If this man has done so much damage to your reputation, it is not wise to contact him.’
‘I know that.’
‘Why do you want to phone him now?’
She hesitates.
Thusago gives her a knowing look. ‘Ah, I see. He is in South Africa? Yes?’
‘Could be.’
They are silent again.
‘He was a soldier, wasn’t he?’
‘A long time ago. More recently, an engineer.’
‘How does he work, if he is hiding from people?’
‘He’d have to work cash in hand, somewhere that doesn’t ask questions.’
‘There are many ways a soldier can earn money in South Africa and keep a low profile. Most of them are not good. Enforcer, bodyguard, mercenary, poacher. You may not like what he has become.’
She gives him a wry smile. ‘I’m not known for doing the sensible thing, Mike.’
‘And you love this man?’
‘Jesus, that’s getting personal.’
‘Olivia, I know this kind of man. He will bring you nothing but trouble. You only have three days to find your story. I think he is a distraction you do not need. But,’ he gives her a wide grin, ‘your heart must decide.’
‘That’s my problem, Mike. My heart decides too much.’
Wolfe snatches the Nokia
phone from her pocket before she changes her mind, and dials.
Will it even ring? Will he answer?
Wolfe hears an automated voice asking the caller to leave a message. What if someone else picks up her message? She must be careful what she says.
A beep. It’s recording her silence. A terrible thought shoots into her head. What if Yushkov doesn’t want to see her?
Seconds tick by and the mobile continues to record her silence.
‘It’s Olivia. There’s no emergency. I’m in South Africa. Please call me.’ She disconnects.
‘Will he call back?’ Thusago asks.
‘I have no idea.’
15
The skyline is dominated by the brightly painted murals of Orlando Towers, two decommissioned cooling towers now used by tourists for bungee jumping: a soccer player running, a kid racing a go-kart, a string quartet playing, Nelson Mandela smiling, a train swirling like a snake around the tower: their energy and joy lifts Wolfe’s spirits. Thusago’s revelation about his PTSD had worried her. He’s her sole contact in Johannesburg and she has just three days to find out what illegal activity the British Chancellor and a Soweto headmaster are involved in.
They turn a corner. Outside an Engen petrol station, a huddle of women on milk crates wave and beckon. On the ground before them are dresses, shoes, tablecloths and garden pots they are selling. Thusago keeps driving, makes a left turn, then pulls up beside a hand-painted sign saying ‘Public Phone’, but the phone box is nowhere to be seen. On the other side of the narrow street two teenage boys sit on the kerb next to a pile of corn for sale.
Thusago gets out of the car and calls to the boys by name. Their faces quickly morph from blank stares to bright smiles. The youngest shouts, ‘Bra Mike!’
‘Howzit my bru?’ says the older boy, who crosses the street and gives Thusago a high five. The look he gives Wolfe is less than friendly.
‘Watch my car, will you?’ Thusago asks, ‘I’m visiting Mama Gcina, okay?’
‘What you got for me?’ asks the boy lifting his chin.
