The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  “Bad boys.”

  “But that’s it. They’re not releasing anything else. Not even department-to-department. We know that no charges have been filed, and we know that the sixteen-year-old in Springs is denying it ever happened.”

  “Ah. Someone’s exerting some influence. Only a minister’s decree can close things up that tight.”

  “Malan.”

  “Or Leistner.” Mansell folded the newspaper, tossing it toward the wastebasket. “What else do we know?”

  Joshua shrugged. “Not much. They both have valid passports. Their travel papers were in order. They were holding current identity cards. Labor Bureau confirms their latest work permits for the mining job I told you about, but they’ve been ordered to withhold any specifics.” Joshua turned in his chair. He punched the “off” switch on the side of the computer and said, “So?”

  “So let’s make some sense out of this thing.” Mansell arose. Smoking led to pacing. “Fredrik Steiner has enough of an illicit profile to be tagged and listed with Interpol. He resides in an Eastern-bloc country. And someone, here or in Europe, knows enough about the underworld, or has the contacts, to hire this guy who can pull off two murders with enough skill to damn near fool the best pathologist I’ve ever worked with.”

  “And he knows enough to realize that Steiner’s the only link between himself and Elgin. With Steiner out of the way, he’s in the clear. But his opportunities to take Steiner out were limited, right? Here or in Jo’burg.”

  “According to Steiner’s travel plans, his stopover in Jo’burg would have been less than an hour. He had to do it here.”

  “Agreed.” Joshua crossed the office to a small refrigerator set beneath the water cooler. Mansell hadn’t used it in years. The detective removed two cans of Coke. He tossed one over the desk to the chief inspector. Mansell raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “The guy’s smart. He lets Steiner do his dirty work for him.”

  “A frame job that’s just short of being masterful.”

  “They probably made arrangements to use the airport basement for their last payoff, and while he’s handing Steiner an envelope filled with English pounds, he puts a bullet between his eyes.”

  “And he uses a handgun that under normal circumstances would be almost impossible to trace.”

  “Except the exact same guns show up in a hick town outside of Jo’burg in the hands of two card-carrying drunks from the ANC. A U. S. Army pistol that hasn’t been imported into this country since 1977. Not exactly a staple item in ANC’s arsenal, is it?”

  “I feel like I’m stumbling around in the dark with a leash around my neck,” Mansell said. “All right. We know we’re looking for someone with European contacts. Someone who probably travels to Europe as part of his or her job. Who knew Ian Elgin or had business dealings with him. And who figures to gain, financially or politically, from his death.”

  “Or someone who suffered at Elgin’s hands over the course of the last few years,” Joshua added. “After all, ‘Revenge,’ some wise man once said, ‘is a temptation strong amongst poor losers.’ “

  “Sounds like something Julius Caesar would have said, doesn’t it? And didn’t he also say that even a blind marionette eventually feels the tug of the puppeteer’s strings?” Mansell circled to the window. He tapped at the glass absently, and then wheeled away, saying, “Okay, let’s start over with those personnel files from Durban, Jo’burg, and Cape Town. We’ll use those parameters. If we’re wrong, then we’ll expand.”

  Mansell discarded the empty Coke can in favor of a cigarette. “Okay. So following his ill-timed demise, Fredrik Steiner is stripped of everything except a blank card with four enticing words on it. Two days later, a pair of ANC activists glide into Springs on their way to a mining job. They start drinking.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “They get drunk.”

  “That’s predictable.”

  “Yeah, but the stupid buggers are carrying American handguns and the same blank card with the same four words on it?” “The tug of the puppeteer’s strings.”

  There was a knock at the door, and a uniformed policeman poked his head past the threshold. “Excuse me, Inspector. The railroad police finally got around to cleaning out Anthony Mabasu’s locker down in the baggage department. They found this. I thought you might be interested.”

  The policeman handed Mansell an evidence bag containing the paper sleeve from a Sea Lanes bus ticket. The sleeve was empty, but the travel information had been neatly printed across the front. It read, “Time of Departure, 6:20 A. M. Date of Departure, 3 July. Destination, Butterworth, Transkei.”

  “The sleeve to Sylvia Mabasu’s bus ticket.”

  “On the other side, sir.”

  Mansell flipped it over. The words were handwritten in red ink at the bottom. “Sylvia. Meet me. 4:30 A.M., Friday the 4th. The sleep room.”

  The telephone rang.

  The caller was Delaney Blackford.

  “I had to put in some later hours last night at the harbor,” she said. The edge in her voice told Mansell that the call was strictly business. “I told you about the impending arbitration with the Association, I think.”

  “Charming habit,” Mansell replied. “How can I complain about my work schedule if you’re keeping the same hours?”

  “I had a visitor. An unexpected visitor.”

  The tone remained—anxious, taciturn. Mansell retreated, taking a seat. “At the office?” he asked.

  “Yes. Steven de Villiers.”

  “Elgin’s temporary surrogate.”

  “That’s right. He was rummaging through some files when I arrived around eleven,” Delaney said, then described the encounter.

  Mansell lit a cigarette. He laid the match on his desk. “I assume shipping manifests are not generally within a union liaison’s scope of responsibility.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Can I put Detective Brungle on with us? He’s harmless as long as he doesn’t talk.”

  “Certainly.”

  Mansell gestured toward the extension. “Go ahead, Delaney. Please. “

  “You remember when Lea Goduka was telling us about her first encounter with Ian Elgin? The day they met?”

  “They met at the port control tower on Charl Malan Quay. A year ago, she said. Elgin was meeting a ship.”

  “The point is, union negotiators and board consultants don’t normally serve that function. It’s probably nothing really, but. . . .”

  Mansell pressed on. “The ship was a freighter. The AVA, wasn’t it? Something like that.”

  “The ARVA II,” Delaney corrected. “I checked the files that de Villiers was looking through last night. ARVA II is red-tagged for arrival in port today.”

  “Synchronicity?” Joshua muttered.

  Mansell tipped his head slightly. “Delaney, is there any way of knowing if Elgin was—”

  She broke in. “I’ve already checked. ARVA’s docked in P.E. five times over the last six years. I cross-checked the dates with the minutes from Affiliated Union board meetings and staff reports. Ian was in town on every occasion.”

  “I see. What type of cargo?”

  “According to the manifests, mining equipment. On all five occasions.”

  “That might explain it, I suppose.” Mansell crushed out his cigarette. “Could Elgin have expedited matters for an incoming vessel in terms of berthing rights, or unloading privileges, or freight services? Anything like that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about customs?” asked Joshua.

  “I would have to say yes.”

  ****

  As ARVA II rounded Cape Receife, the waters of Algoa Bay reflected a lustrous ultramarine. A prevailing breeze blew temperately from the southwest at ten k.p.h. When the harbor pilot came aboard the freighter, Captain Aidoo relinquished control. Nervously, he lit a briarwood pipe and thought about the trouble resting in the belly of his ship.

  At the harbor entrance, the frei
ghter slid past an outgoing cargo-ship and a South African naval cruiser. A tugboat stood watch over ARVA’s stern. Berth number ten was located on the south side of number two quay, and there they cast anchor.

  An assistant port captain, two customs officials, and the port systems manager met the freighter dockside. And though supervising incoming vessels was not a normal function of the systems manager, a lengthy conversation with Chief Inspector Mansell of CIB had convinced the port manager to take special note of this ship’s safe harbor.

  From the railing of the bridge deck, Captain Aidoo surveyed the docks. Nervousness became deep-seated concern. Holy Mother of God, he thought. Where in the hell is Mr. Elgin?

  Concern, however, did not give way to panic. Before going ashore, Aidoo sent a deckhand below with a message for Andrew Van der Merve. Then he delivered an entirely new set of papers to the assistant port captain. The packet consisted of four documents. Both the export license and the export permit now listed Sao Paulo, Brazil, as the port of record. The sales agreement now listed the Porto Nacional Iron Works in Sao Paulo as the seller of record, and East Fields Mining Corporation as the buyer. And the shipping manifest now gave an itemized listing of thirty mining implements and showed the place of lading, the destination, and the passenger and crew list.

  In due course, the documents were relinquished to the customs authorities, and sweat dripped from beneath Captain Aidoo’s cap.

  From the upper deck of the Harborhouse Tearoom, Nigel Mansell and Delaney Blackford followed the proceedings over tea and biscuits.

  Moments later, they saw Steven de Villiers emerge on the pier. De Villiers walked briskly toward the gangplank. With the informality of an old acquaintance, he shook hands with the systems manager and both customs officials.

  “It didn’t occur to me until just now,” said Delaney, watching the exchange, “but de Villiers spent most of his time this past week poking around the control tower and the Transport Service Building. Now I see why.”

  “Getting acquainted.”

  “Yes. And with some success.”

  De Villiers released himself from the second customs agent’s grasp. He turned to the captain of the ship and extended a hand. With conspiratorial ease, he placed another hand on the larger Aidoo’s shoulder, and in a gesture that seemed perfectly natural from where Mansell sat, pulled the captain aside and whispered briefly in his ear. Laughter followed the exchange.

  Twenty minutes later, the customs agents, the systems manager, and Steven de Villiers followed Captain Aidoo up the gangplank onto the main deck. A hatchway opened, and when they disappeared into the freighter’s hold, Nigel Mansell called for his check.

  He escorted Delaney back to her office. Then he left the waterfront on foot. On Fleming Street, two fire engines and a hook-and-ladder surrounded a wholesale-retail bakery called La Patisserie. Flames engulfed the building. Curiosity seekers crowded the sidewalks. Others peered from neighboring windows. Smoke caught in Mansell’s throat, and he remembered now that, for the past month, the bakery had been the target of protesters and pickets—a dispute over substandard wages. Odd, he thought, that R1.25 an hour isn’t enough incentive to get up at three in the morning to come bake apple turnovers. He picked up the charred remnants of a sign that read, NO BLACKS AND NO DOGS.

  On Court Street, he stopped at a diner for fish-and-chips and a beer. District Prosecutor Hurst was sitting in a booth by himself, and he insisted that Mansell join him.

  “Good news,” Hurst said energetically. “We’re clearing Anthony Mabasu’s name of the Elgin murder charge. It’s true he’ll still be listed as a possible suspect for a time, and that the record will show both the Elgin and Mabasu cases still open, but those are standard procedures in a situation like this.”

  “Unfortunate that such news has no beneficiary,” replied the chief inspector. Suddenly, the beer tasted flat; the texture of cotton coated the roof of his mouth. “We all know who killed Ian Elgin and Sylvia Mabasu, Peter. But then, such an obvious blot on the transparent record of our Security Branch wouldn’t look right, would it? Ah, what the hell, it’s just paper work at this point.”

  “If it’s your personal record you’re concerned with, Inspector, we can

  “My personal record as chief inspector or my personal record as a human being?”

  “An unblemished record is hard to maintain in a system such as ours, Nigel.”

  Their eyes locked. Hurst’s contrite, but unyielding. Mansell’s mindful, but deflated, his concentration wavering. Air escaped his lungs in a rush of exasperation. He made one last attempt, asking, “Then, will the district prosecutor consider presenting the evidence gathered by my office to a regional magistrate?”

  Hurst shrugged. He dabbed his lips with the corner of a napkin. “Inspector, have you any idea of the caseload . . . ? Yes, of course you do. And, of course, you would know that I can’t possibly do that.” Hurst slipped from the booth, dropping two rand notes on the table. “Find me Fredrik Steiner’s killer. I’ll prosecute that. However, I do plan to make our new position on Anthony Mabasu public. Will that offer a measure of satisfaction?”

  “I see. And what about the Police Act?” asked Mansell. He stared down into the remains of a half-eaten meal. He pushed the plate away. Slowly, he lifted his head. Pale eyes sought out the prosecutor. “And the minister of justice?”

  “Leistner? Why, it was his idea.”

  Back at the station house, Mansell met Oliver Terreblanche in the forensic lab. The Sea Lanes ticket sleeve had been given top priority.

  “We found fingerprints from four sources,” du Toits told them. “Sylvia Mabasu and her husband, as expected, and two clerks at the bus depot.”

  “But not the bus driver,” Mansell said remotely.

  “Only those four, I’m afraid.”

  “Vinyl or rubber gloves?”

  “Impossible to determine.” Du Toits shrugged. “We analyzed the handwriting against John Martyn’s signature on the car rental papers. Negative. We checked it against a dozen samples of Ian Elgin’s writing. No way. But pen position, pressure, and shading all point to a man. A man with large, thick hands. That’s a point of conjecture, of course, but one worth noting, I thought.”

  “Noteworthy,” Terreblanche said, starting for the door, “but hardly court-worthy.”

  ****

  The man wore bib overalls. The bright patch on the back read, “Chelsea’s Department Store.” He parked the panel truck at the curb in front of the Mansell residence on Northview Avenue in Millard Grange.

  He stepped down from the cab carrying a clipboard and wearing sunglasses. By his size, he looked like a deliveryman. He walked past sculptured junipers and blooming birds of paradise to the front porch. He rang the bell.

  As expected, no one answered. The hide-a-key was there, behind the mailbox. The unlocked door swung open easily. He glanced over his shoulder, and then stepped into the entryway. His footsteps echoed on hardwood floors. He waited—listening, watching. He knew the layout by heart. The front room: an overstuffed chair, a gentleman’s rocker with cane seat, the fireplace, a Julian print hanging above the oak mantel. The living room: an oak dinette, the aquarium with three angelfish, a rolltop desk, the upright piano with sheet music from Peer Gynt.

  The hallway led to a darkroom, 2 bathrooms, a study, and the master bedroom at the end. Light blues and lavender washed the walls and the drapery. Stuffed pillows were neatly arranged at the head of a queen-sized bed. Framed watercolors of steep canyons and waterfalls adorned one wall, and pine furniture lined the other. A walk-in closet occupied the far corner.

  The case, he’d been told, was in the closet. The man pushed aside silk blouses, cotton dresses, and corduroy pants until he discovered the pine case attached to the back wall. Behind a six-millimeter pane of glass he could see the guns. Three of them. A 1930 nine-millimeter Webley. A nine-millimeter Browning HP 35. A six-shot .38-caliber Colt Detective Special.

  The man used a thin metal file to jim
my the lock. He pushed the glass panel aside. Eyeing the classic Webley, he reached instead for the Colt. Though he wore gloves, he used the file to avoid touching the barrel or the grip. Carefully, he laid the gun on a white handkerchief, folded it, and then dropped the bundle into the pocket of his overalls.

  He relocked the case, fluffed the clothes, and slid the closet doors back to their original position. Sixty seconds later, he climbed back into the cab of the panel truck, started the engine, and drove slowly down the street.

  ****

  ARVA II’s cargo cleared customs without a hitch.

  At 4:41, a fifteen-ton dockside crane hoisted the first crate from inside the freighter’s hold, setting it gently on the back of a Bristar Straddle carrier. By late evening, dock workers had laid the last crate, one containing two handheld grenade launchers, inside a storage shed next to the railroad siding in front of number two quay.

  At 10:30 that same night, the port systems manager unlocked the rear door to shed 4D, giving access to the newly consigned shipment to Inspector Mansell and Affiliated Union official Delaney Blackford. In the breast pocket of his sports jacket, the inspector held a search warrant obtained from Magistrate Zachary Alexander at his home an hour before. In his hands, Mansell carried a tool box and a crowbar.

  Two hundred meters away, standing at the window of an unoccupied office on the sixth floor of the customs house, Steven de Villiers watched through high-powered binoculars as the pair stepped through the door into the shed. De Villiers’s first impulse was to pick up the telephone and dial Pretoria. Another thought caused him to hesitate. The minister, he remembered, played bridge on Monday nights. The game broke up at eleven sharp. He would wait.

  Inside the low-lying warehouse, concrete and steel beams formed a concave hull redolent of damp basements and used machine oil. Idle forklifts and winding conveyor belts sat at the foot of narrow corridors formed by stacks of cardboard cartons and wooden boxes.

  The East Fields crates were stacked next to a shipment of Japanese pottery and imported wicker.

  It took five minutes to dig through the polyurethane foam in the first crate and another three minutes to uncover a weighty bundle wrapped in soft cloth stashed within the hidden crate. What they found inside the cloth was a freshly oiled replica of the .45-caliber pistol used to kill Fredrik Steiner nine days before.