They stopped for breakfast at a small hotel in Huelva, all of them practically asleep on their feet. Charlie extricated the package from the tool compartment and carried it with him in the briefcase. After three cups of Spanish coffee he was ready to drive all the way to London.
Taking the inland road up to Seville and back down to the coast road at Cádiz and on to Algeciras, they bypassed Gibraltar, then continued along the coast and arrived in Malaga at three thirty in the afternoon. They checked in for a couple of days at the Hotel Majestic, which had a suite available. Ellen and Ronnie lay on the double bed and immediately fell asleep.
Charlie went back down to reception and deposited the briefcase, fastened with all three locks, in the hotel safe. Going outside to the faithful tank, he tore up all the documents and threw them into the hotel rubbish bin. Then he drove to an open car park on the other side of town, where he left the car unlocked with the key under the mat and the family stuff inside. He was sure that when he returned, the Opel would be gone.
When he got back from disposing of the car, it was six o’ clock in the evening. He called the Hotel Plantamar in Madrid and was put through to Nick. “Thank God you’re safely out. I’ve got an incredible story to tell you, but not right now.”
“Well, if it’s better than my story of getting walked through immigration by a lady with a diplomatic passport, I’d love to hear it. I’ve decided I really like empowered women. Shame she’s going back to Oz.”
Charlie confirmed that they were ready to get started and that Nick should arrange to come down to Malaga. But first he was taking the family to the UK and would return on Monday. They arranged to meet at the Majestic in Malaga on the Monday evening.
He then called Iberia, and booked three seats to London for them on Friday’s flight, and a single return for himself on Monday morning.
Ellen called her family in Middlesbrough. “I’m coming this weekend with Ronnie to stay for a while.” Her mother and sister were relieved to hear that they were out of Portugal. They’d been reading some worrying articles in the UK newspapers.
Sergio d’Almeida hadn’t heard from his brother since he’d left on the previous Friday morning. It was now Wednesday night, and he knew something must have gone wrong.
On Monday, he had placed guards at each end of the dirt track that ran alongside the property so that he’d have advance warning of any unwelcome visitors. On Tuesday night, he and Elvira had prepared bundles of clothes, food supplies and plastic bidons of water and fruit juice and loaded everything into the Chevrolet with several jerrycans of gasoline. He had managed to fit in a mattress and bedlinen for his family. The maintenance truck now resembled a mobile home. They were ready to make a move. If they heard nothing from Henriques the next day, he would assume the worst and try to take his family to safety.
He said nothing to his workers, not even the senior employees. He remembered what his brother had told him. He waited anxiously for news.
At Craveiro Lopes Airport, Colonel de Mouro was inundated with work. In addition to the commercial flights that were still operating, the number of refugee flights had doubled that week and were now coming in from five different agencies and three countries. On top of that he had almost twenty thousand people camping inside and outside of his airport and representatives from the agencies and embassies were knocking on his door all day long. Jorge Gomez was not high on his list of priorities.
Nevertheless, by Wednesday evening he managed to find the time to order two soldiers to drive up to Ambrizete, with instructions to locate Sociedade Mineira de Angola, question the owner, Henriques Jesus Melo d’Almeida, and find Jorge Gomez. There were few vehicles available, so the soldiers would set off first thing in the morning in an open jeep.
On Thursday morning, Charlie obtained the local phone book and looked up Abogados, Lawyers. He called the first number on the list and asked to speak to the senior partner. An English-speaking man came on the line and after a short conversation Charlie thanked the lawyer and rang off. He rang a second number and arranged an appointment at 4:00 pm that afternoon.
After lunch, Ellen went to discover Malaga beach front with Ronnie. As they walked along the sand together, Ellen tried to explain to her son, in simple terms, why they had been forced to leave their home and friends in Portugal. She needn’t have worried, Ronnie was a smart boy. He’d already figured out that bad things were happening in that country. Now he was looking forward to seeing his cousins in the UK.
Charlie recovered the briefcase from the hotel safe. He walked out to get a taxi to the lawyer’s office, thinking through the past events and the tasks ahead. Suddenly, he had a sick feeling in his stomach. Sergio. Henriques’s brother! He’d completely forgotten about him.
He went back to the suite, opened up his address book and asked the switchboard operator to connect him with the number of the mine in Ambrizete. The call might cost a fortune from the hotel but he owed it to Henriques to try to contact his brother, to see what was happening and if he could do anything.
The number rang out, but, like the Saturday before, there was no reply. He put the receiver down, wondering what was happening, or what had happened in Ambrizete. What had happened to Sergio and his family. He didn’t think it could have been anything good, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He picked up the briefcase again and went to find a taxi for the ten minute drive. At one minute past four in the afternoon of Thursday, July 3rd, 1975, Charlie met José Luis Garcia Ramirez for the first time.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Thursday, July 3rd, 1975
Ambrizete; Santo Olivier de Zaire, north-west Angola
At eleven thirty on Thursday morning, one of the guards rode his motor cycle back from his post at the coast road end of the dirt track and ran across to Sergio, who was outside the sorting plant.
“There’s a jeep just come up the road from Luanda with two soldiers in it.”
During the night, Sergio had been considering the little that he knew of the recent events and current situation. Two weeks ago Joachim had told him of a man from the Portuguese Junta who’d been around the mine, asking questions. Last Friday, there had been killings at the mine, involving the Portuguese man and two soldiers. Henriques and Manuela had left that morning with an APA director from Lisbon, promising to call him that afternoon from Leopoldville.
He’d heard nothing since then and now there were two soldiers driving up to the mine. He could wait no longer to hear from Henriques, it was time to get out.
“There’s no problem,” he told the guard. “Go back to meet the soldiers and bring them along here. I’ll be waiting for them.”
The man rode off again and Sergio went to get Elvira and their two children. He helped them into the back of the truck and made them lie down on the mattress, out of sight. Saying nothing to anyone in the offices or plant, he drove out of the gate, stopping only to speak to Joachim’s replacement, who was standing outside his blockhouse.
“There’s some soldiers coming from Luanda. I’ll drive along and see what they want. I don’t want them disturbing the workers, it’s bad enough without the army parading around.”
Sergio’s plan was simple. His brother had driven north-east to Noqui, to go over the Zaire border at Matadi. He had to assume that they hadn’t made it for some reason and he didn’t want to risk making the same mistake. He knew there was an MPLA unit on the coast road just south of Ambrizete and he’d heard there were more rebels coming to join them, so he couldn’t head south towards Luanda. In a few minutes, there would be two soldiers coming east along the dirt path towards the mine. There was only one remaining alternative.
Sergio drove about five hundred meters east along the dirt track until he came to an even narrower and rockier track going north, towards Tomboco. A couple of kilometres up the winding gradient, he stopped and helped Elvira and the children out of the rear door of the truck. The sun was already high and the interior of the vehicle was unbearably
hot.
“God,” she complained. “It’s like a furnace in the back. There’s no air.” She was coughing and wheezing with the heat and lack of fresh air. Elvira was asthmatic and the stress and worry of the last several months had made her condition much worse.
He helped her and the children up onto the bench seat behind his and made them comfortable. He opened all the windows and listened helplessly to his wife panting for breath, trying to suck the hot, humid air into her lungs. After a few minutes he started up the truck and set off again.
Driving up the narrow track his forearms began to ache with the effort of gripping the wheel to keep the shaking and bouncing truck on the uneven surface, its worn-out suspension creaking and groaning with every rock or crater in their path.
At two o’clock they stopped for a rest and a snack under a huge banyan tree, its high branches and foliage creating a pool of shade, which made the heat just about bearable. Sergio and Elvira were already sore and aching from the rocky, tortuous road. The children had slept a little, but were in a fractious mood now. Four year old Alicia was continually asking why they had to sit in the horrible van for hour after hour and Raymundo, less than a year old, was crying and wailing with the heat and the jerky motion of the jolting vehicle.
At three thirty Sergio found the track going west, back towards the coast road, and they started to make better going on the slightly improved surface. They were driving along a series of irregular escarpments in the foothills of the mountains and the landscape was stunning. Rugged, barren expanses of mountainous terrain stretched off towards the distant horizon in the north and east, interspersed with bands of forested savannah-like plains.
At four thirty, just short of the coast road, he pulled the truck off the track into a rocky area and walked carefully forward to check the road for potential problems. Apart from a crowd of refugees trudging wearily past him, he saw nothing to alarm him. He could now increase his speed and at five o’clock they reached Manga Grande, about half way to Santo Olivier de Zaire, their ultimate destination, now just about one hundred kilometres away.
Sergio’s plan was working. They had encountered no soldiers or rebels of any kind. This north-west corner of Angola was completely isolated, because it led nowhere but to the southern bank of the mouth of the Congo River. From there, they had three choices. To go east across impossibly difficult terrain and cross the border at Nóqui, where his brother had been heading. To traverse the twenty kilometre mouth of the river, to Banana, in Zaire. Or to try to get on a passing ship that was heading to a hospitable destination, wherever that might be. He would decide when they reached Santo Olivier de Zaire.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Monday, Tuesday, July 7th-8th 1975
Malaga, Spain
“So, tell me about this lawyer. Why did you seek him out? How did you find him, for that matter?”
Charlie and Nick were sitting in the bar of the Majestic Hotel in Malaga. It was six o’clock on the evening of Monday, July 7th. Charlie had returned that morning from England and had his second meeting with the Spanish lawyer that afternoon.
He assembled his thoughts. “Have you ever heard of IOS, Investors Overseas Services?”
“Nope.”
“OK. IOS was a major offshore investment company, run out of Geneva, but operating in just about every country in the world, including Spain.”
“That’s why I never heard of them. I never had any money to invest. Go on.”
“Unfortunately they went bust a few years ago, and I lost five thousand pounds.”
“Tough.” Nick was having difficulty following the story.
“In every country where they operated they had political contacts, salesmen, banking relations and lawyers. Their specialty was to get money from, let’s say ‘inhospitable climates’, to more hospitable places.”
“You mean they smuggled cash to Geneva?”
“If you want to be crass, I suppose you’re right. Anyway, they had a great international network of smart people. At one time, I heard that they were receiving over ten million dollars per week in Geneva. The money would come in every possible currency and it would end up in US dollar mutual funds. It was a really neat business, I was a big fan.”
“So I suppose that José Luis was their lawyer in Spain. How did you know?”
“Exactly right and it was easy. I called a firm of lawyers and asked them who used to be the lawyer for IOS and they gave me his name and number.”
“Good thinking. But if the company is down the drain, how can he help us?”
“Because today I told him I want to move half a million dollars out of Spain.”
“You did what?” Nick was almost apoplectic.
“Just wait.” Charlie took a slip of paper from his pocket. “Here’s the name he gave me.”
Nick took the paper. “Who’s Laurent Bonneville?”
“He was Mr. IOS down here until a couple of years ago.”
“So where is he now and how can he help us?” Nick sounded exasperated.
“Sorry, Nick, here’s what I know. Laurent Bonneville is a Frenchman who was a Regional Manager for IOS. He was one of the big sales chiefs. His territory was Iberia, as in Spain and Portugal. Apparently he speaks a dozen languages like a native, Spanish, German, Portuguese…, well, you get the picture. He made a fortune with IOS and was one of the few who didn’t sink all of his money into the company stock. So he’s still well heeled and still apparently involved in ‘international financial transactions’. He lives in Monaco and he’s coming down to see us tomorrow.”
“You’ve already spoken to him?”
“I figure that we need to move quickly to finish off what we’ve started. José Luis tells me that he is absolutely trustworthy and a very fast worker. Well, in that kind of business you have to be. One wrong move and you’re out of business, or fairly dead, I suppose.”
“What if José Luis is not what he seems?”
“All I can tell you is that he didn’t ask me anything when I left the briefcase with him, and today he asked me even less. I told him the bare bones about coming from Lisbon, the family, etc. and that’s all. I didn’t mention you, Olivier, Angola, nothing. I simply told him that I have this cash and asked him if he could help me. He obviously hadn’t opened the briefcase and he didn’t want to know anything about it. I left it with him as a test, to see what he would do. He did absolutely nothing, except to look after it, which greatly impressed me.
“Today, he gave me this Frenchman’s details and made me promise that I would never divulge that he had done it. Don’t forget he was the IOS lawyer, and he’s still in business. In my book he’s the real deal. When we get things sorted out, I’m going to hire him for my own affairs.”
“If you trust him, that’s fine, no problem.” Nick thought for a minute. “There’s just one thing though. If this guy Bonneville was the big IOS man in Portugal, why didn’t you find him before?”
“Because sometimes I’m really stupid. I just didn’t think of it until I was busy cleaning sick off Ronnie’s sleeping bag. I was asking myself if there wasn’t an easier way to get cash moved, and bingo, the light came on. In any case it probably wouldn’t have mattered. Apparently Bonneville is persona non grata in Portugal. Or maybe I should say the communists would love him to go back, so they can throw him in prison.”
Laurent Bonneville was a tall, slim, fit-looking man with an angular jaw and a head of blonde hair swept back in a film star style, smartened down with hair cream. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties. It was easy to see why he’d been so successful in persuading wealthy people to trust him with their money. He had intensely piercing blue eyes and he used them to great effect. Sitting in the park near the Paseo Maritimo, he seemed to be looking through the two men to glean the truth of their story. They had agreed to tell him simply that the cash was from Portugal and they wanted it in Geneva. They wouldn’t mention the diamonds. That could come later, if the first step went successfully.
“So.” He had a softly modulated voice with a recognisable French accent. “It’s really very simple. You want me to move half a million dollars in cash from Spain to Geneva, and you’ll make your own banking arrangements when it’s there.”
The other two nodded their agreement.
“Where’s the cash?”
“It’s five minutes away from here in an easily accessible, safe place, under our control.” Earlier that morning, the two men had visited the nearby Banco de Malaga. With the help of a telephone call from José Luis, they had been able to arrange a safety deposit box. They were relieved to be able to store the briefcase in the safety of the bank vault.
“When do you need the money in Geneva?”
“That depends on you of course, but as soon as possible.”
“It’ll be there next week if we start today.”
Nick frowned. “How can you start today? You didn’t know what we wanted until you arrived here.”
“My resources are always prepared. Clients are usually in a hurry, if you see what I mean.”
The others exchanged glances and Charlie said, “You have local associates.” The Frenchman inclined his head.
“So, how does this actually work?”
“It’s very simple. You go to the butchers at El Corte Inglés and you buy some chicken pieces. Ask them to wrap them in some waxed paper with newspaper around it and then put it in one of their shopping bags. You go back to your hotel with the chicken and the cash. Throw away the chicken, put the cash inside the waxed paper then wrap the newspaper around it again. You tie the parcel with cheap string, and put it back into the shopping bag.
“This afternoon at four o’clock, you sit on this same bench, with the shopping bag. A young Spanish woman called Angela will stop to say hello.
“You will tell her that you’re a great admirer of “Manolote”, the famous bullfighter.
“She will tell you that his real name was Manuel Rodríguez Sánchez.
[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan Page 26
