In return Precious was a superlative assistant. At times Manhattan had even commented to friends and associates that Precious seemed to be connected to him via a psychic link, such was her ability to foresee his demands.
As it happens, Precious had no claim to extrasensory powers of any sort. But she was intuitive and quick thinking. Also, she had short-circuited the telephone intercom system so that she could listen in to all of Manhattan’s calls and meetings. This is how she managed to predict his every need.
It was also how she had gained the information that was about to make her and her husband into a very wealthy couple.
Precious had not overheard all of the meetings that Manhattan had been involved in because many had been held after hours when she had been at home. But she had heard enough information to know what she had to do and when.
She knew that in the next two weeks the South African Rand was going to drop in value by at least forty percent, or four thousand points. She did not know why, but she had heard her boss assuring the people in the meeting that it would happen. Her eavesdropping had also educated her as to how she could use this information to her financial gain. Manhattan had discussed financial spread betting with his compatriots. He did not discuss numbers or figures, but he did not need to.
After discussing things with her husband, Precious had gone straight to their bank and taken out a short-term loan using their house as collateral. The bank had advanced them half a million Rands, or approximately fifty thousand American dollars. She had taken the cashier’s check to Capital Spread Brokers International and put it all down as a ten percent deposit on a bet of $125 dollars a point that the Rand would drop 4000 points, or forty cents, in six weeks. If the Rand did as Manhattan predicted then she stood to make over One million Dollars profit.
Now she was at home sharing a well-deserved bottle of champagne with her husband.
Life was good.
Then the doorbell rang.
Precious opened the door. Outside stood two black men. Both were well dressed in dark suits, designer ties and highly polished shoes.
‘Good evening, Mrs. Marwala. Sorry to bother you. I am Colonel Zuzani of the South African Police Service. This is Sergeant Fumba, my assistant.’ The Colonel held up a laminated ID card. ‘Could we please come inside? We won’t take much time.’
Precious ushered the two policemen in.
‘Colonel, would you like a drink?’ Asked Precious. ‘We have champagne open.’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘No thank you Mrs. Marwala. I don’t drink European liquor. I find that it sours the stomach, do you have any traditional beer by any chance?’
Precious shook her head.
Colonel Zuzani sighed. ‘A pity. Such is life. More and more of us find ourselves drawn to the European ways of life with their sour alcohol, their anorexic women and their disrespectful children. Never mind. May we sit?’
The Colonel sat before Precious could answer. He greeted her husband with a nod. ‘Mister Marwala.’
‘Colonel.’
Sergeant Fumba stood to one side, hands behind his back. Expressionless. Silent.
‘Now, Precious. Do you mind if I call you Precious?’
Precious shook her head.
‘Good. Precious, this morning you deposited a half a million Rands with a company called Capital Spread Brokers International. True or false?’
‘True,’ replied Precious.
Colonel Zuzani smiled. ‘Good. May I ask why?’
‘I’m sorry, Colonel. I don’t understand.’
‘Why did you deposit such a large sum of money with a spread betting company? It is a very simple question, Mrs. Marwala. Please answer it.’
‘My husband and I made an investment.’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘No, Mrs. Marwala, you did not make an investment. You laid down a bet. What did you bet on?’
Precious stared to sweat. Fat drops rolled from her hairline and down her cheeks. Like a precursor to tears. ‘We bet on the Rand losing value against the Dollar over the next six weeks.’
‘Not very patriotic to bet against your own currency, Mrs. Marwala. Not very patriotic at all. And such a large sum of money. You must have been very sure that you would win.’
Precious said nothing.
‘Mister Zuzani,’ said Precious’ husband.
‘Colonel Zuzani,’ shouted the Colonel. ‘Colonel Zuzani, you fucking peasant. And I am not talking to you.’ The Colonel stood up. ‘Now, Precious, no lies, why so much money?’
Precious said nothing. But now real tears had joined the sweat. They slid down her face in shiny rivulets and dripped onto her white collar.
‘I overheard mister Dengana. I’m sorry. I have done no harm.’
‘No,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t think that you have. Tell me, Precious, have you told anyone else about this?’
Precious shook her head.
‘Remember, no lies. If I find out that you were lying to me I shall come back. And next time I will not be so polite. Are you sure?’
Precious nodded.
‘And you, peasant?’ Colonel Zuzani asked the husband.
‘No one. I promise.’
The Colonel smiled.
Sergeant Fumba smiled.
‘No harm done,’ said the Colonel. ‘Just keep this all between us. No one else must know. Agreed?’
Precious nodded. ‘Agreed.’
She smiled.
Sergeant Fumba pulled a silenced Heckler Koch USP from a shoulder holster and shot her in her right eye. He swiveled and shot her husband twice in the side of his head. Then he re-holstered the weapon. He did not bother to pick up his expelled cartridges.
‘Nice shooting,’ said the Colonel. Let’s go. Mister Dengana will be pleased. I’ll phone him from the car.’
As they were about to close the front door a small ginger kitten walked into the sitting room and mewled plaintively.
‘Hey,’ said Sergeant Fumba. ‘Check out the cute kitty.’ He walked back into the sitting room and picked it up.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Asked Colonel Zuzani.
‘Taking the kitty. We can’t leave it here, it’ll starve.’
‘So?’
Fumba gave his superior a reproachful look. ‘Please, Sir. We aren’t savages.’
Zuzani sighed. ‘All right, bring the fucking cat. Let’s go now.’
Fumba smiled. ‘I’m going to call him Heckler, after my gun.’
‘Yeah,’ said Zuzani. ‘Whatever.’
***
And in his office in Sandton City, Manhattan Dengana was planning to do exactly what Precious had just done. Except he was spreading his bets over a worldwide total of two hundred different spread betting companies. Also, he was betting a sum of $250000 per point. He and his cartel had almost raised enough cash to put down the required ten percent deposit. Everything was going according to plan.
In a few short weeks Manhattan was going to make a profit of over One Thousand Million Dollars.
Chapter 11
Doberman Security was located in a three-story building that took up a whole block in Krugersdorp. The entire building was painted a matt black and the company logo, a snarling Doberman, was painted in gold above all of the windows and doors. This was meant to look intimidating but the harsh African sun had done its work and the faded emblems look less dog and more hobbit. Dull lines of faded paint sharing a joke with the peoples of middle earth.
Garrett and Petrus decided that they would take the polite approach to garnering information from the owner, mister Sampson Sabelo. This was mainly due to the fact that mister Sabelo was sitting in a building that was full of heavily armed employees. It was also due to the fact that Petrus had heard of mister Sabelo before. And he had emphasized to Garrett that Sampson Sabelo was not a man that you treated with disrespect. In Petrus’ own words, he was one loony-tunes son of a bitch with his own private army.
The two of them removed their weapons and slid them
under the seats of the pick-up. They wanted their friendly intent to be obvious and anyway, it would have done little good taking a few iron-age weapons into the lion’s den.
There were two armed guards at the entrance door. Both were young. Both were black. Both were kitted out in the very latest in urban combat wear. Spider tactical body armor, black shirts and trousers, black special forces boots, Heritage stealth pistols in the 40 cal round and Vektor CR-21 South African assault rifles. They were probably the most intimidating soldiers that Garrett had seen for a long while.
Petrus, however, was unimpressed.
‘Shit, these boys are so pretty. I think that I’m getting turned on,’ he whispered to Garrett. ‘Look at all their beautiful toys.’
The guards opened the double doors and ushered Garrett and Petrus into the lobby. Petrus batted his eyes at them as they walked in.
‘Cut it out, Petrus,’ said Garrett. ‘Stop looking for trouble. Remember, polite.’
Petrus grimaced. ‘Polite never works.’
‘Let’s try it. You never know.’
The black and gold theme continued inside the building. Charcoal carpets, dark gray walls with gold Doberman logos. Black leather chairs, smoked glass reception desk with gold trim. Funeral home kitsch.
The receptionist sat behind the desk. Black telephone with a multitude of lights and extra buttons, black computer and black Rolodex. Her hair was teased out into a huge 1970s afro. Red dress, matching red lipstick, dark blue eye shadow. Skin the color of strong coffee with a drop of cream. She was stunning.
‘Can I help you gentlemen?’
‘Please,’ said Garrett. ‘We would like to see mister Sabelo.’
‘Appointment?’
‘No,’ replied Garrett. ‘But it is important. We only need a couple of minutes of his time.’
She picked up the phone and punched in a string of numbers. A quick and quiet conversation followed. She replaced the receiver.
‘Down the corridor, gentlemen. The double doors at the end. Three minutes.’
Garrett nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Petrus gave her a wink. She lifted her head and sniffed disdainfully.
The Zulu nudged Garrett as they walked down the corridor. ‘I think she likes me.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
Petrus chuckled. ‘Yeah, she does. I can see.’
Garrett knocked on the double doors and then pushed them open, not waiting for a reply. They walked into the office and Petrus closed the doors behind him.
Unlike the rest of the building, mister Sabelo’s office was decorated with impeccable taste. A harmonious blend of traditional African and old European. Woven grass floor coverings, carved Teak wood desk. Hand stitched buffalo leather wingbacks. Vibrant African art on the walls. In the corner, a Sapele wood table with an array of cut crystal decanters. No gold. No Dobermans. An executive office. Apart from the Vektor CR-21 assault rifle leaning against the wall behind the desk.
Sampson Sabelo did not stand up.
‘You have two minutes, gentlemen. Don’t bother to sit.’
‘Your receptionist said three,’ answered Garrett.
‘She lied. Talk.’
Garrett took the 50 cal cartridge out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. Sabelo didn’t even look at it. He continued to stare straight at Garrett. The silence stretched out.
‘One minute.’
‘This cartridge came from a Desert Eagle that was used in a kidnapping a few days ago. We have been told that this self same cartridge came from a batch that was sold to you by Sakkie Rebonowitz.’
Sabelo shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Sakkie says differently.’
‘He’s lying.’
‘First your receptionist and now Sakkie. A lot of lying going on.’
Sabelo nodded in agreement. ‘Yes. It’s a very sad state of affairs. Personally, I blame MTV. Your time is up. Goodbye.’
‘Please mister Sabelo, this is important.’
‘Leave.’
‘At least look at the cartridge,’ said Garrett.
Sabelo picked up his telephone. ‘Stacy, send someone to show my visitors out. Now.’
Before he could replace the receiver Garrett, knowing that they had only seconds of face time left, leant over the desk, pulled the receiver from Sabelo’s hand and smashed it against the side of his head. Blood flowed from his crushed ear.
‘Where is the boy?’ shouted Garrett. He grabbed Sabelo by the throat and pulled him across the desk. ‘Where are you keeping Freedom?’
The double doors burst open and a crowd of armed men ran in. Five of them piled onto Petrus, forcing him to the ground, beating him viciously. Six attacked Garrett, striking him with boots and rifle butts. He went down under a rain of blows and curled up into a ball, absorbing the punishment.
After a minute or so the beatings stopped. The two friends were dragged down the corridor, through the reception and into the street where they were unceremoniously dumped onto the sidewalk.
Garrett lay still for a while. Then he fumbled in his jacket pocket. Found a pack. Took a cigarette out, placed it between bleeding lips. Next his Zippo. Flicked a flame. Lit. Inhaled.
Petrus groaned. ‘What happened to polite?’
‘The guy’s a dick head. Lost patience.’
‘So did you get the number?’ Asked Petrus.
‘What number?’
‘The number of the bus that ran over me. Shit, man. I’m broken. Those youngsters sure know how to kick a man when he’s down.’
Garrett finished his cigarette and pulled himself into a sitting position. Then he stood up. Slow. Painful. He held out his hand. Petrus grabbed it and heaved himself off the ground. His face was covered in blood from a deep gash above his eyebrow.
They walked slowly to the pick-up and got in. Garrett started up and pulled out onto the road.
‘So,’ said Petrus. ‘What now?’
‘How late do you reckon Sampson works?’
‘Late,’ said Petrus. ‘I’ve heard tell that he often sleeps there. They’ve got sleeping quarters. Security is a twenty four hour thing.’
‘No more polite,’ answered Garrett. ‘We go back to your stolen house, clean up, eat, wait until nine o’clock or so and then go back and demand some answers.’
‘Won’t be easy.’
‘It never is.’
Garrett stopped at a set of traffic lights. A tall man stood on the side of the road. In his hands a small, neatly written sign asking for work. Garrett glanced at the man. Their eyes met. And the tall beggar keeled slowly over, banged into the driver’s door and fell to the tarmac. Garrett put the handbrake on and opened the door. The tall man lay crumpled on the ground. His face was shroud-pale. Limbs slack. Lifeless.
‘Petrus, give me a hand.’
Petrus climbed out and the two of them manhandled the tall stranger into the back of the double cab. They had to bend his knees to fit him in.
Then they got back in and continued on their way home.
‘So,’ said Petrus. ‘What’s with the big stray?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He’s sick.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t know. His eyes. Something.’ He shrugged again.
‘Cool,’ said Petrus. ‘Not a problem. Any other beggars that you want to pick up and take home you just tell me.’
‘Fuck off.’
Petrus laughed.
Pete unrolled the papers onto his desk. He was alone in his study. The furniture reflected its owner in all ways. Solid African hardwoods and roughly stitched leather. Scarred from age and abuse. No art. No carpets. Bare light bulbs.
The map and its supporting documents had been dropped off by a middle aged white man in a BMW. Pete had met him a number of times. He was the link between Pete’s sympathetic backers and himself. They never spoke much, he knew that his name was Isaac Peterson but no more than that. He had his cell phone number if he needed to contact him and,
the few times that he had, Isaac responded promptly and with efficiency. He had delivered the package and left.
The map was drawn to a 1:100 scale. Almost an architect’s drawing. Pathways, windows, doorways. Electric fences, guardhouses, sentry posts.
There was also a pile of detailed photographs, both aerial and from street level, as well as a typed itinerary. The photos were instantly recognizable to anyone who had lived in South Africa for any length of time.
The photos were of the Union Buildings in Tshwane.
The South African seat of government.
And the president’s official office.
Pete’s plan was relatively simple. He knew, better than most, that it would be impossible to launch a successful coup with only forty men. Even with the coming arms cache. He knew that, even though the current South African National Defense Force was a mere diseased cousin of what it used to be, it still had over ten thousand soldiers under arms. No one could beat odds of 250 to 1.
But forty well-trained, well-armed men would be sufficient to take and to hold the union buildings. Or at least a portion of the buildings. The portion that contained the president of South Africa.
And then Pete would be in the position to make a few demands.
Demands that would have to be listened to.
And after that he would have ten tons of weapons to arm his people with. His new followers.
The citizens of his new nation.
Chapter 12
Garrett poured a carton of orange juice into a large glass. Then he added half a bottle of honey and stirred until the honey had dissolved. He carried the mixture over to the tall man. The stranger was awake. Lying on one of the camp beds, swaddled in a sleeping bag. His eyes followed Garrett as he walked. He said nothing.
Garrett squatted down and held the glass to the man’s lips. ‘Here, drink slowly.’
After he had consumed half Garrett took the glass away and waited. A minute or so later he fed him the rest of the mixture. The man coughed a little but he kept the drink down. It was a good sign.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 29
