by Mark Graham
He stepped into the phone booth. A hint of perfume lingered, and he inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes, thinking of Valeria again. Finally, he dropped two coins into the phone and dialed the operator.
She, in turn, dialed three long-distance numbers in three different cities. All without success. She tried the first number again, and a familiar voice answered.
“A woman is riding on our train,” Van der Merve explained. “She boarded in Port Elizabeth. It’s my guess that she’s a railroad official. A suspicious railroad official.”
“Describe her.”
“Thirty years old. Dark complexion. Black hair, quite long. Attractive. She walks with a cane.”
“Mrs. Delaney Blackford. She’s a union official.”
“I suspect she knows about our cargo.”
“You suspect?” the voice challenged. “Do you have proof?”
“In my business, proof is deciphered by the look in someone’s
eye. The way they walk. A hint of perspiration on a chilly night.
The hesitation in their voice.”
“Yes, your intuitions are well founded. No one’s arguing that.” “We can’t afford the risk.”
“We?” the voice replied sharply. “Your job is to see to it that the arms reach their destination safely. The woman is our responsibility.”
“It would be very easy from this end. Very easy.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Proceed with the plan as is. I’ll see to it that Mrs. Blackford is taken care of.”
Chapter 9
A black-and-white met Mansell at the airport. He had expected Joshua, but the patrolman explained. “There’s been some trouble at the Industrial Park.”
“The Ford protest?”
“You got it, chief. The usual stuff. Bonfires, fist waving, short tempers. Ford closed its Neave plant today. Laid off five hundred workers—temporarily, they say. I guess now the Kaffirs’ll find out what low pay is all about, huh? Anyway, the mayor sent in the local commandos this afternoon.”
Mansell sighed. He touched the congested mass beneath his shirt and winced. “Great. The usual stuff. Billy clubs, tear gas, rubber bullets. And a grand time for all.”
That ended the discussion. They drove
in silence. Mansell gazed out at the harbor. Algoa Bay glistened purple and black. The sea stretched out before him, a void of eternal, kinetic energy, disappearing at last into the maternal hands of night. At the station, he used the back entrance to his office. He dialed Captain Terreblanche’s private line, and found his superior still on duty.
A minute later, Mansell descended the stairs to the Pit, where his reappearance was met with conspiratorial ribbing and theories of early retirement. Amid this packed house vying for elbow room and attention, it took Mansell several minutes to track down Joshua. He found him in a small glass cubicle cloistered with two blacks, wearing red-and-white baseball caps, and a public defender, who Mansell recognized for his lack of talent.
He knocked once, cracked the door, and stuck his head in. He said, “I’m meeting with Terreblanche in fifteen minutes.” “I’ll be there,” Joshua replied.
Gingerly, Mansell walked downstairs to the pathology lab. Steenkamp sat at his desk studying a backgammon board. Mansell slumped into a chair without speaking.
The pathologist stared at him for ten seconds, bemused. “You look . . . well, shitty is the only word that comes to mind.”
Mansell unbuttoned his shirt with difficulty. It was cold in the basement.
“Sit up and breathe,” Steenkamp said, running chilly fingers over the bruised ribs and inflamed abdomen. He studied the puncture wound, hissing. “A night-long siege with some illicit barrio queen, no doubt. I’m jealous.”
“I went to Jo’burg for a round of sightseeing and culture shock, and ended up mud wrestling with a moustachioed Goliath.” “Oh, not sadistically induced orgasms, then?”
“You should see the other guy. He paid for his pleasure.” “Mmm.” Steenkamp returned to his desk. “Even David needed a breather now and again, I imagine.”
He unlocked the door to a cabinet and came away with a bottle of white pills. From a desk drawer he produced a bottle of Martell and two teacups.
“Codeine,” he said, passing the pills to Mansell. He read the label. “Take one every four to six hours.” Steenkamp laughed. “You’ll take two, of course.”
Mansell washed down the pills with cognac. The pathologist scribbled on a prescription pad. He pushed the paper across the desk.
“This will get you some antibiotics,” he said. “Do have it filled, please. I haven’t an empty table available for at least a week.”
Mansell climbed the stairs believing he could feel the medicine taking effect. Joshua was standing in the hall outside his office. The chief inspector saw surprise and amusement spread across the detective’s face, and he held up a hand.
“Yeah, I know. I know,” he said, “I look a bit ruffled.”
“Ruffled?” Joshua replied, chuckling. “You’re good, man, you know that? You, no doubt, would have described the Hindenburg as looking a bit toasted. Trouble?”
“I ran into a jackhammer.”
They strolled down the corridor, up another flight of stairs.
“We have four possibilities from our suspects list,” Joshua said in reference to the files from Durban, Cape Town, and Johannesburg. “Two from the Jo’burg-Pretoria area, big money losers in the mining business. One from Cape Town, a government official from Mineral Resources and Energy Affairs, and a union guy from Durban who didn’t fare too well under Ian Elgin’s tutelage. Piet Richter’s in Durban right now.”
“Good.”
“And I heard from Mrs. Blackford.” Joshua relayed the developments from Bloemfontein in brief.
They opened the door to the station commander’s domain. Captain Oliver Terreblanche sat alone behind a tidied desk. Fatigue and a graven scowl masked his oval face.
“Where have you been, Inspector?”
“In Johannesburg since noon yesterday.”
“On company time?”
“On company business.” Mansell dug for a cigarette. “I decided the matter was better off kept under wraps.”
Terreblanche showered them both with a quizzical glare. He said, “This had better read like a Dashiell Hammett mystery, boys.”
At a loss for a suitable beginning point, Mansell started with Lea Goduka and his introduction to the freighter ARVA II. From there, he painted Ian Elgin and the arms into the picture. Finally, he recounted his and Delaney’s discovery in the harbor’s storage shed the night of the fourteenth.
“You entered a harbor storage shed and opened secured and bonded cargo without a warrant?”
“Captain, I had a warrant.”
“How thoughtful. Yet you casually allow a cache of arms—what did you say?—two hundred and fifty crates’ worth into this country without informing me or Security? Can you imagine the effect this is going to have on your career, Mansell?”
Terreblanche reached out for the telephone, but Mansell covered the receiver with his own hand first.
“Oliver, maybe we’ve both had a rough day, all right? And maybe I should have consulted with you before taking off for Jo’burg. But I think you’d better hear what I have to say before calling out the firing squad. Would you like to grant your chief inspector that one small courtesy, please?”
Terreblanche relented. “All right. Talk.”
“Ian Elgin knew about the guns. Elgin was a part of it from the very beginning. He was the link between the arms, the harbor, and the railroad. He was their guarantee.” Bit by bit, Mansell felt his body surrendering to the effects of codeine and exhaustion. He stripped off his jacket and stood up. “Why he was killed, we can only guess. Because he knew too much? Because he’d outlived his usefulness? Maybe he was getting cold feet. I don’t think so. I think that after six years, whatever those guns are being used for, whatever it is the people behind this whole thing are planning, it’s c
lose. My guess is that maybe Elgin was demanding a bigger piece of the action, maybe even threatening to expose the whole operation.”
“What the hell operation are we talking about, Nigel?”
Mansell sidestepped the question. He responded, instead, by working his way step by step through the case, carefully alluding now to every possible connection between the minister of justice, Ian Elgin, the arms, and East Fields. He saw the effect each reference had on both Terreblanche and Joshua. It wasn’t encouraging.
This led to Cyprian Jurgen. Mansell related the encounter and said, “It’s on tape. All of it. Jurgen confirms that our minister of justice is part of whatever the hell is going on at that mine, Oliver.”
“Really? He used those words? Exactly?” Beads of sweat collected on Terreblanche’s forehead. “Well?”
“He said, Leistner’s group is leasing the land from me.’ That’s reasonably close, don’t you think?”
“For what purpose?”
“My guess is that Jurgen doesn’t know. And I wasn’t about to ask. That’s why I went to East Fields myself this afternoon.” Mansell consulted his notes, describing the scene in detail up to the point of his untimely confrontation with the Homestake caretaker. “So?” Terreblanche turned his palms upward. “What do we have?
A newly opened mine displaying a bit of overkill in its security measures.
Mansell tipped his head. “A mine that’s due to receive an illegal shipment of guns from America within two days. A mine that may well have received five similar shipments over the last six years.” “Are you certain the arms are headed for this East Fields mine?
Could it be that the smugglers are using the name as a cover?” “It’s possible.”
“Could you identify the guns the guards there were carrying? Were they M 16s? Were the pistols American?”
“Not from that distance.”
Terreblanche massaged a day-old beard. He yawned. “Is there any evidence that this freighter—what did you call it?”
“ARVA II,” answered Joshua, impassively.
“Indeed. Is there any reason to believe that this ARVA II brought anything other than mining supplies into the country on its previous trips here?”
“Only Ian Elgin’s presence at the time of each visit,” Mansell answered.
“In other words, none. Okay. The one thing we do know for certain is that a cache of arms has been brought into the country illegally. Correct?” Terreblanche raised an eyebrow, looking from inspector to detective. “Okay. Whether these guns are related to Ian Elgin’s murder or not, it’s still a Security Branch matter. A damn serious one. And whether the guns end up at this East Fields mine or in the Kalahari Desert, it’s still Security’s problem.”
“I wish it were that simple. If the arms are destined for East Fields, then a certain amount of suspicion falls on the very man who controls Security.”
“Do we know that he knows? The most powerful goddamn minister in the country? What would he have to gain from such temerity, Inspector?”
“If the prime minister falters, or if he’s forced to step down at some point, who do you think the job belongs to?”
Terreblanche struggled to his feet. “Now you listen, mister. No one else had better hear those charges, do you hear? No one. You can save your political speculations for after-hour bull sessions at the bar. Your job is homicide investigation. Now, there’s a corpse in the morgue with a bullet hole between its eyes, and your twenty-four-hour purge of Johannesburg provided this office with exactly zero information about who put that hole there.”
Terreblanche snatched a glass from his desk and poured water from a nearby pitcher. He sipped it briefly and then sat down again. Composed, he said, “My chief inspector isn’t particularly fond of Security Branch. Fine. I understand. Your contempt and flippancy are overlooked because of certain talents that you possess. But don’t push it, Nigel. You start pointing a finger at the highest legal authority in this land and you’ll end up sweeping floors at the local high school.”
“Oliver, listen—”
“You listen. Now, I’ve got to think about this one, Nigel. I mean I can’t deny that you might be on to something, but it’s damn fantastic. And like you said, we’ve both had a pretty rough day.” Terreblanche leaned across the table. Gesturing with his glass, he said, “Okay. It stays in this office for the night. Just between the three of us. Agreed? Nigel, go home and get some sleep. You look done in. Check in with me first thing in the morning. We’ll make a move then. Joshua, the same.”
The attendant at the police garage handed Mansell the keys to a gray Chevelle. “Tight clutch,” he said as Mansell turned the engine over.
The soporifics were winning. Mansell cranked down all four windows. He drove slowly. A cool breeze and fragmentary thought kept him from succumbing.
An English union official is killed by an East German thug. The thug also kills an innocent woman, whose husband is purposely framed for both murders. Still, the setup is only temporary; poison is discovered. Later, the hit man himself is disposed of. The body is put on display; the killer leaves a note. Facts? Or convenient rationale for a cop in dire need of explanations? The justice minister complains about the need for a solution. Demands results. Is that unusual involvement, natural concern for a friend, or is he just doing his job? The cop uncovers a shipment of illegal weapons. He suppresses the information. Tells himself it’s the only avenue left to his killer. Why? Is a perfect record that important to him? Or is the cop really trying to convince someone else of its importance? Maybe convince that someone enough so that she’ll come back home? Maybe it’s time the cop got on with his own life. Maybe it’s time the cop tried being more of a human being and less of a cop.
By some stroke, Mansell found himself on Cherrywood Parkway. Two blocks further on, he turned right onto Northview. He parked at the curb. He peered out at the house. Reluctance overwhelmed him. He switched on the radio and heard the pedal steel guitar of King Sonny Ade.
Another possibility struck him. Maybe the cop is looking for an excuse to have himself bumped from the force? Dismissal meant avoiding the decision himself. Mansell could just imagine Delaney’s response to that. But if Security Branch was forced into a case built of sticks and straw, then someone would have to answer for it. Except, he thought, switching the radio off, the guns in those crates weren’t made of straw, and the automatic rifles and radar screens at East Fields weren’t built of sticks.
This last thought propelled him out of the car.
Shafts of moonlight cut through the sycamores, illuminating the street. Lights glowed from the dining room, bathroom, and pantry, giving the house a lived-in look. Suddenly, Mansell felt lighthearted, almost at ease. Halfway up the walk, he paused to light a cigarette.
A car crept down the street. Mansell watched it approach. Ray Thompson’s Ford, he thought. But then it pulled into the next-door neighbor’s drive. Jason Smith worked the swing shift at the Wool Exchange. Mansell couldn’t see his face, but he raised a hand, waiting.
The driver killed the headlights, but not the engine. The door opened. Mansell saw the gleam of black steel. A pistol. He threw himself on the ground. He heard a muffled thud, followed instantly by lead ricocheting off the sidewalk. He rolled to his knees, madly fumbling for his own gun. He saw a large figure wearing a ski mask, feet spread, arms extended. Mansell dove behind a forsythia bush. A second shot hissed past. A third struck a terra-cotta planter on the porch, shattering it.
Mansell fired off two rounds, wildly. He came to his feet, scrambling toward the side entrance to the garage. A fourth shot ripped through his jacket. He felt a burning sensation. That was good. He lunged for the door. A fifth bullet punched a hole in the front picture window. A sixth whizzed past his head, embedding in brick. The door opened. Mansell tripped over the top step and collapsed on the garage floor. He heard the roar of an engine, the squeal of tires.
He hurried back to the porch. Peering around the corner of the garage,
he saw brake lights and heard the protest of tires as the car swerved violently onto the parkway and was gone.
Six shots, a broken planter, a shattered window, a grazed shoulder. A brutal warning or an unfortunate assassin? Mansell wondered. No. The gunman’s actions were well planned, his timing exact. He had used a silencer. No, he thought, those were not warning shots.
Weakened by drugs and spent adrenaline, Mansell threw himself down on the porch. The police would be here soon. Drifting, he imagined the tinnient chiming of bells, a ringing. He shook his head. The sound grew in volume, and something in his brain made the connection. The telephone.
He entered the house with his gun raised, crept into the study, where the phone seemed to be screaming at him, and grasped the receiver, holding it silently to his ear.
“It’s Delaney.”
“Delaney. Hold on.”
Mansell raced back through the house to the front door, bolting it. He switched off lights in the dining room and pantry and carried the phone from the study to the back porch. He settled into a rattan chair with a view of the backyard and the front rooms.
“Good of you to call.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“Yes. We’ve impressed someone.”
“What’s happened?”
Mansell thought about that. Who actually knew? Who had he talked to in the last twenty-four hours that could possibly know? Mansell dismissed the caretaker from Homestake out of hand, and Ian Elgin’s wife had seemed more bitter about his call than concerned about its repercussions. He thought about Cyprian Jurgen, the sprawling mansion, and the cameras that followed him from room to room. Had Jurgen decided to talk with Cecil Leistner after all? Could he have been followed to East Fields? It was possible. Mansell shook his head. That left Terreblanche and Joseph Steenkamp. He reviewed their conversations and shook his head again. It didn’t add up. There must be someone else. “Joshua.” Mansell said the name aloud. “No, not Joshua.”
“Inspector?”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Delaney, they know about you. They’ll be looking for you now.”
