[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan

by Christopher Lowery

  Even though it was Sunday night, Espinoza didn’t have anything to go home for. Since the ‘trial separation’, he lived in an empty house that he couldn’t afford and wasn’t worth the money he’d paid for it. He would pop into his office to check his desk and emails and then go for a beer at the tapas bar next door then back to the house to sleep. What a life I’ve created for myself. Fifty-two years old and nobody waiting for me at home.

  Despite the weather, the traffic was light on Sunday night and he was at the station in just twenty minutes. The duty officer was half asleep at her desk.

  In answer to his question, she replied, “Nothing special, Inspector Jefe, it’s been a quiet night. How was your trip?”

  He went up to his office and saw his phone was blinking. More messages. There were only two, his secretary again and Leticia da Costa. Reaching for his phone book to look up her house number, he saw there was a fax on his private machine. He tore it off while he rang Leticia’s number. It was headed, “US Department of Justice”, sent by a Special Agent in Washington, Sonia Nicolaides. Must be Greek origins, he thought.

  A woman answered the phone. “Si. Diga me.”

  He asked for Leticia. The woman told him she was her mother. Her daughter was at Sr. Bishop’s house with Jenny.

  “Do you have the number handy?” She gave it to him.

  “Gracias, Sra. Oh, is her little boy with her?”

  “Por supuesto, Sr. Of course.”

  “Gracias Sra, y buenas noches.”

  He dialled the number and started reading the fax.

  Chief Inspector Espinoza.

  In the course of investigating another matter, I have come across some information which may be useful to you. On April 17th, an email, signed, “Jenny, Charlie’s daughter-in-law”, was sent from a Spanish email address, to three men. It informed the addressees that Charlie had died in an accident. I have traced the email address used by Jenny, to Marbella, which I understand is in your jurisdiction.

  You should be informed that one of the three men, Laurent Bonneville, died in suspicious circumstances in Verbier, Switzerland, on April 2nd. The second man, Raffael Rodrigo Pires da Silva, known as ‘Roddy’, also died in suspicious circumstances in New York, on April 11th. He is involved in my present investigation. I have no information concerning the third man, Nick Martinez, who lives in Miami.

  The email address that Jenny transmitted from, and the other two recipient’s addresses seem to be clean. As far as I can ascertain, none of the persons concerned, except for da Silva, is implicated in, or connected with my investigation. I hope that this information is of value and I am at your disposition for any other clarifications you may need.

  Sonia Nicolaides, Senior Case Manager, CAPP.

  The Bishop’s phone gave a disconnected signal. Espinoza raced out of his office and into the waiting elevator. On the way to his parking place he called his subordinates at the Policía Nacional in Marbella. He jumped into his car, switched on the siren and emergency beacons and accelerated up the rainy street to the Autopista. The clock on the dashboard read ten twenty-three.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 27th April, 2008

  Marbella, Spain

  Jenny stepped back in surprise, her hand to her mouth. “Francisco? What on earth are you doing here? It’s almost ten o’clock on a Sunday night.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. I know it’s not convenient, but I must talk to you. I have important information and you need to know it right away. May I come in?”

  Jenny’s heart started pounding. What was happening now? She said, “Well, of course you may. But Leticia’s here and what can be so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “Leticia’s here too? Good, that will save time, my news concerns her as well. You have to listen to what I have to say. It could be vitally important.”

  She stepped aside to let the lawyer into the hall and closed the door behind him. He hung his raincoat and hat on the hall stand. They walked into the kitchen and Leticia turned in surprise, repeating Jenny’s question. “Qué haces aquí, Francisco?”

  “Buenas noches, Leticia. I’m afraid I have some worrying information.”

  Jenny tried to manage the situation. “Sit down, Francisco, you look soaked and cold. Have a glass of wine to warm you up and you can tell us why this is so urgent.”

  He sat at the table and took off his spectacles, wiped them with his handkerchief, then took a healthy swig of the Rioja. “That’s delicious. Salud.”

  Jenny sat on the bench seat next to Leticia. “So, what’s this about, Francisco?”

  “Well, as you know, I was in London and I just got back an hour ago. I was there to meet one of my clients, Raffael da Silva.”

  “Raffael? That’s one of Charlie’s partners.” Leticia gave Jenny a worried look. How did Francisco know him?

  “That’s right. It’s the most incredible coincidence. I only discovered it yesterday, after making enquiries with my US counterpart.”

  “What enquiries, I don’t understand?”

  “Last night I discovered that Raffael died two weeks ago, in New York.”

  A cold chill ran down Jenny’s spine. Charlie was dead, Ron was dead and now Raffael too. She didn’t want to think about the implications.

  “But how was he your client? He was in New York, not Malaga. I don’t understand.”

  “He’s been my client since I worked in New York for TMTP, sorry, Thompson, Mather, Trelawney & Prescott. He didn’t turn up for our meeting in London, so I asked them to investigate. They called me last night and told me that he’d died.”

  “And they’d discovered that he was Charlie’s partner?”

  “Yes. The Angolan Clan, but I suppose you know all about that, don’t you?”

  Now, Jenny was totally confused. From previously knowing nothing about their business in Geneva, it seemed that Francisco was suddenly aware of everything. He’d mentioned the Angolan Clan, but was that something that da Silva’s lawyers would know about? Did he know about the diamonds, the bank account, Adam’s transaction? What exactly did he know?

  She tried to find out indirectly. “How did Raffael die? He was quite young, wasn’t he?”

  “It was a drug overdose, but the police aren’t sure if it was accidental or deliberate.”

  “My God. You mean it could have been a murder?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to frighten you, but it seems that’s the case.”

  Jenny sat back in alarm, trying to digest what she had just heard. Raffael, one of the missing partners was dead, possibly murdered and Francisco had come to tell them about it at almost ten o’clock on a Sunday night. There’s something he’s not saying here, she thought.

  “Why exactly have you come here, Francisco? You could have called us, or waited until tomorrow. What’s so urgent that you have to come here on a Sunday night?”

  The lawyer paused, looking apologetic, even distressed at what he was about to say. “Jenny, TMTP informed me that the police believe that the deaths of Raffael and…” He looked even more uncomfortable, before continuing, “your father-in-law could be connected.”

  Leticia was listening anxiously to the conversation, also adding up the ominous list of accidents. She said to Jenny, “You remember the Chief Inspector asked if someone might have a reason. But he was talking about Charlie and Ron. And now there’s Raffael.”

  “Don’t be so silly, it’s just a coincidence.” She glared at the younger woman. Don’t say any more! Where is Adam? Where is Laurent? Where is Espinoza? Far too many coincidences. Her mind was seething with terrifying possibilities but she was unable to confront them.

  She thrust those thoughts aside and considered what the lawyer had said. “So, on what are they basing that theory?”

  “They think there could be a conspiracy. That there are other partners involved. Apparently there’s a lot of money at stake and they’re trying to grab it for themselves.”

  “Other partners?�
��

  “A South African and a Frenchman. The police say that one or both of them may be imposters. Dangerous criminals, pretending to be partners of the Angolan Clan.”

  Adam and Laurent! Leticia’s blood ran cold. They were awaiting the visit of two possible murderers.

  Jenny’s mind raced, remembering the clues that she’d chosen to ignore. Adam’s five year relationship with Laurent and IDD, the trips to Geneva, London, New York and Florida. The mysterious appearance at the funeral, Laurent not turning up in Geneva, the break-in at the hotel, the two million dollars difference in the contract.

  She cleared her mind again, still puzzled by the lawyer’s nocturnal visit. “How did you get all this information on a Sunday night? Does José Luis know anything about this? Have you informed Chief inspector Espinoza?” She sat nearer to Leticia, taking her hand in her own. The young woman was staring at Francisco, her eyes wide with fright.

  “The New York police contacted TMTP, they’re gathering information. I got the call when I landed and drove straight here from the airport. I haven’t called anyone else yet, I wanted to explain it all to you first.” He took a gulp of wine and poured himself another glass.

  Jenny’s mind was off on another track. Where does Nick fit into this? Was Adam’s story invented? If Nick is dead, how did he really die? She shook her head. It wasn’t possible. She recognised genuine bereavement when she saw it. And Laurent had been Charlie’s partner and friend for thirty years. There must be a mistake, some simple explanation. Francisco had got hold of the wrong end of the stick.

  He reached for the telephone. “But you’re quite right. I’ll call Espinoza and José Luis now, if you think it’s best.”

  Leticia said, “That phone doesn’t work.” She handed the lawyer her mobile. “Use mine, the numbers are in it.”

  Before he could make the call, the doorbell rang again. It was just before ten. Jenny turned to go to the hall. “It’s either Adam or Laurent. They were due to get here about now. They must have walked up the drive as well.”

  The lawyer jumped up in alarm. “They could be the men I’ve been warned about. Why are they here? Do you know how dangerous this could be? We have to be extremely careful.”

  “They’re coming because we asked them to come. It’s too long to explain now, but I can’t believe that they’re implicated in any murderous conspiracy. Just act naturally and don’t say anything about Raffael. Let’s try to find out what’s really going on.”

  When the other two nodded their understanding, she opened the door. The rain had increased in intensity, it was beating down like stair rods, and there were impressive flashes of lightning across the sky, followed by the noise of thunder rolling around the hills on the other side of the golf course.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Sunday, 27th April, 2008

  Lyon, France; Marbella, Spain

  Just before ten o’clock, Esther Rousseau walked towards the immigration desk at the Aéroport St Exupery in Lyon, her ID card in her hand. She had taken the train from Geneva at six thirty and her Air France flight to Heathrow left at ten thirty, so her timing was perfect. She was using the French ID card in her maiden name of Esther Bonnard, which was still valid, since it was issued only six months before her marriage to her Swiss husband, which had lasted less than a year. Up to the day she met Ray d’Almeida.

  Her suitcase was already checked in. It contained clothes for both of them. Mainly beachwear. Ray had told her that Panama was a very hot place. Hotter than the South of France, which she had often visited before she moved from Toulouse to Geneva after marrying Gaston. Esther was happy to leave Switzerland. It held too many bad memories, mainly because of Gaston, who turned out to like men more than women. And that sexually-frustrated, nose-blowing, arrogant bastard, Eric Schneider, who spent more time in his office looking at her tits than dictating letters. Ray had come along just at the right time. For them both.

  Only another five hours and they would be together again, this time for good. Then off to a safe, sunny place, with a fortune in the bank. She tried to keep the smile off her face as she handed her ID card to the immigration officer. People don’t smile at immigration officials.

  Chief Inspector Pedro Espinoza was driving his SEAT Léon through the pouring rain at a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour on the autopista near Cabopino. It was as fast as he could risk with the bad visibility and rain-soaked road surface. He’d plugged his mobile into the car battery-charger, but it was the radio-telephone that now started squawking. It was Martín, one of the Policía Nacional officers from Marbella that he’d sent to York House.

  “What’s going on?” Espinoza asked.

  The distorted reply came back, “We’ve just arrived at the security post. The others aren’t here yet. The guard says he’s seen no unusual activity on the CCTV.”

  Espinoza hesitated, weighing up the options. The problem was that he didn’t have any real information apart from a fax from a woman agent in the US. “OK. Wait for the others and for me. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I want to see for myself before we take any action.”

  Just as he finished speaking he saw the glare of the braking and emergency lights of the cars ahead slowing down and he jammed his foot on the brake. A moment later he passed a Municipal Police car parked on the hard shoulder. Two policemen, wearing fluorescent yellow rain jackets, were placing accident signs on both sides of the road.

  “What’s happening?” he called to the nearest officer.

  “Good evening, Inspector Jefe. There’s been a crash further along the road, between the Marbella Golf course and the hospital. With this shitty weather we’re slowing the traffic all the way back here so it doesn’t get any worse.”

  Espinoza thought for a moment. “Call your colleagues and make sure the hard shoulder is free all the way past the accident spot. I’m on an emergency and I need to get through.”

  The officer saluted and pulled out his walkie talkie. Espinoza put his foot down and drove onto the hard shoulder. The dashboard clock read ten forty-four.

  “Here we are again. I was supposed to be on my way to Miami by now. Sod’s law.” Adam dropped his bags on the hall floor and hung his raincoat in the hall.

  “I hope you agree it was the best thing to do.” Despite the contract and what Francisco had just told them, Jenny wanted to hear Adam’s side of the story. She also believed he was worrying about his father’s funeral. She knew how stressful funerals could be.

  “On one condition. Make me a pot of tea and all is forgiven. I’m absolutely freezing. It’s like a bloody swimming pool out there. This is not what I expected in the Costa del Sol.” He went into the kitchen and Leticia came to greet him, then turned to introduce him to the lawyer.

  “We haven’t met, although I saw you at the funeral. I’m Francisco García Luna, how do you do?” The two men shook hands.

  “Francisco’s one of our lawyers, Adam,” Jenny said.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Adam Peterson.” He looked worryingly at Jenny and Leticia. What was this lawyer doing here on a Sunday night? He thought about the contract. They’ve seen the difference in price. Shit!

  Francisco removed his steel rimmed spectacles and pushed them into his lapel pocket. Without them, Jenny saw that his eyes looked different, no longer soft and kindly, but somehow arrogant, even cruel.

  “So you’re Adam, Martinez’s bastard. You useless piece of shit. You stupid, incompetent prick! You’re the asshole who’s cost me twelve million dollars.” He smacked Adam across the face so hard that he fell to the floor.

  Jenny and Leticia screamed “What are you doing Francisco, are you crazy? Leave him alone, we don’t know that he’s done anything wrong.”

  Blood poured from Adam’s nose. His head swam and he saw stars. He suddenly thought of Stanford all those years ago in college, when he’d knocked him down in the street. He’d been terrified that he’d killed him, but he’d been lucky. He sat up, holding his nose. “What in God’s name is going on her
e? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Who am I? I’m just the poor schmuck who’s been screwed out of a fortune, that’s all!”

  Jenny couldn’t fathom the lawyer’s words and actions over the last twenty minutes. He was behaving like a drunk. She said, “Have you been drinking, Francisco? You’re not making any sense. You’d better leave now before you make things even worse for yourself.”

  Adam staggered to his feet and sat in one of the kitchen chairs and she went to the sink to wet a towel with cold water. He took it and tried to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

  “I am making perfect sense, my dear Mme. Bishop. You’re just being a bit slow to catch on.” Francisco took another swig of the wine.

  Like a flash of lightning, the truth finally burst into Jenny’s head. Everything the lawyer had told them was a lie. It was he who was planning to steal the Angolan Clan fortune. He was a crooked lawyer, a thief, just like Vogel. He was probably in league with Raffael and had lied about his death. He had told them the story to get inside the house. To attempt to steal the money and the diamonds. She suddenly felt better, finally knowing what was happening. This was something she could cope with. His tactics were to frighten them. Well, two could play at that game.

  “I’ve had enough of this, Francisco. You can’t come barging into our house and behave like this. You’re deranged, or drunk or something. If you don’t get out, I’m calling Chief Inspector Espinoza.”

  She picked up her mobile and looked for the policeman’s card. Francisco punched his fist down onto her hand, smashing the phone onto the floor. Shattering it into fragments.

  Jenny looked at the remains of the mobile phone then at the lawyer’s smug expression. SMACK! She slapped him across the face with all the strength she had. “Don’t you dare behave like a vicious gangster in front of me and my friends. Now get out before we call the police.”