The Red Die

by Alex MacBeth

  “You always liked to worry your mother,” said Dona Paola, breaking the illusion of normality at dinner. The children looked at their father and waited for him to answer. Felisberto kept his head down and ate. In time he would try and make his family understand. But how could he tell them that he had jumped out of a plane, swum across a lake and nearly been killed by a thief to be with them? Paola put the children to bed and returned to Felisberto, who was sitting on a chair outside the front door, smoking. It was a full moon and light glinted off the zinc roofs of homes in the expanção.

  “What are you caught up in?” asked Paola, after a few minutes.

  “Nothing, mother.”

  “Don’t lie to me, son,” said Paola gravely. “I haven’t seen you like this since that trial in Maputo nearly twenty years ago. You’ve changed. You’re hardly eating, smoking twice as much. God knows if you even remember talking to a woman, let alone…” Paola looked up at the moon and gathered herself. “Police work is a noble path, Felis. You know I have always supported you. But whatever you are involved in is obviously dangerous.”

  “Mãe, I am not involved in anything,” pleaded Felisberto.

  He hugged his mother and she left. The full moon illuminated the otherwise impenetrable dark in front of the porch. The Comandante was reassured by the familiar sounds of home: the falls of the three-legged dog, the wails of the ill neighbour’s child and his drunken uncle, the bushbaby beating on the zinc roof. Rambo sat beside the Comandante’s hand and licked him. Together they ate putos and stared at the moon.

  The Comandante awoke at dawn, squeezed between his children, to the sound of the morning call to prayer. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming and watched his children sleep. Both Sofia and Germano always lay inwards towards him and each other when they slept, a detail Felisberto couldn’t help be proud of. His father had taught him how important it was to keep a family united, even if he had spent large parts of the Comandante’s own childhood away from home in the mines of South Africa. He finally returned with skin like bark and a lifetime of bodily injuries after a decade away, but was unrecognisable from the man who had left.

  His mother had to take a job as a live-in maid in the city. His father became a regular at the local drinking hole and Felisberto, as the second eldest of five children, was left to look after his siblings while scraping through school. His older brother Sansão was killed in an ambush by Portuguese forces in 1969 and Felisberto enrolled in the revolutionary army to atone for his death and fulfil his father’s wishes. “This country deserves to be independent,” his father often repeated. He had died before the words had become reality, missing the ceremony by less than twelve months.

  The Comandante washed for longer than usual the next morning. One side emerged cleaner than the other thanks to the pain in his ribs. He put on his uniform and ate a healthy breakfast of green chima and eggs before heading to work. Samora had done a sterling job rebuilding the comando while he was away and a makeshift wing was already functioning as a base for operations again. Felisberto entered the compound, which still bore burn marks on the ground and walls. João and Amisse buttoned up their shirts, lowered the volume on the TV and turned their eyes away from Albertina towards the Comandante.

  “Some things don’t change, boys, do they?” said Felisberto, bowing to Albertina. The new office was equipped with cheap plastic seats and tables and Samora had managed to secure a fan from the district court. Interior Affairs in Nampula had chipped in the TV as a condolence gift shortly after the bombing and it was belting out news in the background. The Comandante caught a glimpse of Frangopelo on screen. The oil and gas minister was accusing officials at his ministry of having handed out illegal contracts. The news was followed by an advert for the Palma Foundation. “Looking after child and animal welfare in Mozambique,” said Palma, with his crooked smile, dressed in his military honours and surrounded by smiling children and happy animals in a safari park. The Comandante turned off the TV and shook his head.

  “Ready for real work after your holiday, chefe?” said Samora tongue-in-cheek.

  “What have you got for me?” asked the Comandante, as Albertina, João and Amisse, all in uniform, stood to attention to welcome him back. Two fresh-faced cadets, a boy and a girl, were standing stiff at the entrance to his office. Felisberto recognised one of them. In fact, he was sure he had seen them both somewhere before. “Aren’t you Naiss’ boy?” said Felisberto.

  “Daniel,” said the well-built young man offering a firm handshake to the Comandante. Daniel had the same strong cheek bones and broad shoulders as his father. But why was he here? Felisberto gave Samora a questioning look.

  “Grab this coffee,” said Samora, shoving a cup into Felisberto’s empty fist, “and I’ll explain. While you were away Nampula decided to make some changes, send some reinforcements.”

  “Changes?” said Felisberto fuming. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “Your phone was off so I sent you an email,” said Samora. Felisberto wanted to rip his deputy’s head off.

  “Anyway, Naiss…” Samora continued, but Felisberto was already at the other end of the garden on his phone.

  “Matola,” said Naiss answering the call. “How is Daniel?”

  “Why is he here, Naiss?” said Felisberto. “Do you want me to babysit him?”

  “Yes, Matola, essentially yes. He’s a smart boy, obedient, if a little self-assured, but I’m sure you can handle him. It won’t be for more than a month, I promise. Much appreciated and that. Got to run.” And with that Naiss hung up.

  What about the girl, thought Felisberto, surely she wasn’t going to stay too, was she? “And this is Raquel’s daughter, Cristina,” said Samora. Just his luck, he thought. One slip of the tongue; a casual promise to a colleague about a potential internship for their daughter and this is what happens. The girl was so shy she could hardly stretch out her thin arm to greet him. “Can you use a computer?” asked Felisberto. The girl nodded. “I can,” said Daniel keenly, sensing an opportunity.

  Samora walked the Comandante into his new office, closing the door on the others behind them. “You won’t believe some of the breakthroughs we’ve had since you’ve been away, Comandante. Some things will be disturbing, especially to you,” he continued, leaving a deliberate pause at the end of his sentence. Felisberto looked at a photo Samora gave him. It showed Palma and Frangopelo meeting in Maputo. “Recognise the man on the left?” said Samora timidly, alluding to Palma.

  How little Samora knew. The Comandante had refrained from telling his deputy everything about Tete and the plane crash, both for Samora’s safety and the best interests of the case. He had told him that he had jumped out of a civilian plane after an engine failure, but nothing about meeting Palma, Now, however, in the relative peace of his makeshift office, Felisberto told his deputy everything.

  “Wow.” It was all Samora could say after Felisberto had finished.

  “Is Palma still alive?” Samora managed to ask. The Comandante shrugged. “What about the disc?” he pursued. “Take it to your friend, see what he can do with it, I’ll cover things here,” said the Comandante.

  Samora updated Felisberto on the case log and recent activity at the comando. The cholera killers had been found and two men had confessed to the killing. Seven people would stand trial for the murder in Nampula with a preliminary hearing set for the following month. There were no new clues in the case of the farmer who had been stabbed in the dead of night by a thief but there was a couriered package from Pretoria ‘for Felisberto’s eyes only’. Felisberto opened the package and found it contained the results of the DNA test for the farmer assassin. At least one murder would be solved.

  Most satisfyingly, it would be solved using a means that the murderer probably had no idea existed. There were very few TV sets in Mossuril and CSI had yet to reach local screens. The Matibani murderer would go to jail convinced that Comandante Felisberto had magic powers.

  “One more thing,” s
aid Samora. “A mother complained that a young foreign male was wondering around town in the late evenings with a young black child,” added Samora.

  “Send João and Amisse to bring them both here then take the car to Monapo,” said Felisberto. “And please, take extra care with the disc. Despite its appearance you don’t know what I went through to bring it back to Mossuril. Oh, and send Naiss’ boy with João.”

  Half an hour later a young white male, unshaven and apprehensive, entered the comando preceded by João, Cristina and Daniel. The latter was acting like he was in charge but his constant fiddling betrayed his uncertainty at procedures. Cristina unwrapped a bubble gum and put it in her mouth before sitting on a bench in the corner. Assuadi, the boy who Tomlinson had fled with, followed soon after with Albertina trying to spoil him with all kinds of tea, biscuits and hugs. Felisberto instructed Assuadi and Tomlinson to take a seat and stared at them both for a while.

  “Why am I here?” asked Tomlinson.

  “We do not permit child smuggling or any kind of perversions of international law designed to protect children.” Felisberto paused. “We have received complaints about you and the child,” continued the Comandante.

  “What kind of complaints?” Tomlinson asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

  “Albertina,” called out the Comandante, “I’d like some privacy.” Albertina signalled to Daniel to leave. The young man took out his phone to hide his humiliation and left. “You too,” said Felisberto, pointing at Cristina. The Comandante noticed the young girl was playing with the red die found in Stokes’ pocket. “That is not a toy, leave it,” said Felisberto, “and please leave me in peace. I have an interview to conduct.” The girl slumped away playing with her hair. “They are part of a toy, they are used in games,” she muttered. Felisberto put his head in his hands in despair and turned to Tomlinson waving his hands.

  “Apologies for the chaos, we have new staff starting and they are not yet fully aware of protocol,” said Felisberto.

  “No problem,” said Tomlinson.

  “Now, who are you?” asked Felisberto.

  Tomlinson showed the Comandante his passport.

  “Why are you in Mozambique?” the Comandante pressed, holding the passport in his hand and occasionally referring back to it.

  “I’m a zoologist, I work for a nature reserve,” Tomlinson explained, not used to being questioned, let alone interrogated and certainly not in Portuguese. He could sense that the officer before him was getting strange ideas about him and the child and he would have to either fabricate a good story, which the child might not corroborate, or trust this police chief enough to confide in him about the events at the reserve. He had read all about police corruption in Sub-Saharan Africa and feared he had fallen into the venal clutch of a semi-literate villain in a uniform. So he decided to assess the man in question first before giving away any information that could compromise his or the child’s safety. In fact, he wouldn’t give him any information at all. He’d keep his mouth shut and wait for events to unravel. He was still in the same province as the reserve and a phone call could have him in the hands of the director, or worse – Abdalla’s killers, in no time. This was a poker game now.

  Felisberto turned to the child and spoke in the local language, Macua, which irritated Tomlinson as he couldn’t understand the line of questioning. The Comandante turned back to Tomlinson.

  “He says you took him away but that he was in danger. What was the danger?” pressed Felisberto, leaning towards Tomlinson across the plastic table and looking straight into his eyes.

  Tomlinson, who never could stick to a plan, especially if it was one of his own, took a look at the Comandante and decided to test him.

  “I think the boy’s father was murdered, possibly by officials linked to the state, for threatening to reveal details about some kind of illegal activity at the wildlife park, probably smuggling, possibly organs, that kind of thing” said Tomlinson trying to lighten the impact of his words.

  Felisberto was intrigued. “Are you suggesting respectable members of the political community are threatening this boy’s life?” said the Comandante, with evident disdain for the foreigner sitting before him. Felisberto had fought a devastating war in which he had lost a brother, a sister and a lot of dignity. That war had been sponsored by Rhodesia, South Africa, Germany, the US and the UK. It had been concocted, started, sponsored, armed and partly fought by foreigners: white foreigners. Almost two million people had died as pawns in a proxy conflict between global powers in yet another Cold War arena. Felisberto felt no hatred for Tomlinson, he’d just seen too many shady foreign military advisers on the battlefield. Right then, he couldn’t help but hold Tomlinson accountable for his foreignness.

  “I’m saying the boy is in danger and I only tried to protect him,” Tomlinson replied, defensively.

  “Why didn’t you report any of this to the police near the Nature Reserve?”

  “I was afraid that it might leak back to the killers of the boy’s father.”

  The Comandante turned to the boy again and spoke further in Macua. He then asked Albertina to take the boy out of the room and turned back to the young British zoologist.

  “Something is not right here and I need to find out more,” said the Comandante. “Until I can establish some line to the basic facts, we’ll need to hold you in the cell, for the boy’s safety,” added Felisberto with a good cop smile.

  “What will happen to the boy?”

  “This is Africa, Mr. Tomlinson. Families absorb children, who in turn have many mothers and fathers. For now the boy will be looked after by the mother of the children he has been playing with for the last ten days you have been here, your neighbour Mrs Hamisi.”

  Tomlinson was surprised that the tiny district police force, which didn’t even have furniture or windows, had amassed so much information about him without him noticing. Had he been followed? He put up no resistance when Felisberto showed him to the holding room. A damp mat was on the ground and a bucket touched the urine-stained wall in the corner. Felisberto handed over a five-litre container of water and bolted the door closed. Tomlinson felt terrified. He had never expected to go to prison, especially not in Africa, and he felt completely unprepared for the situation. The smell was terrible and Tomlinson had to push himself not to be sick. He started to panic that he would end up rotting in an African jail surviving off rat meat and fighting hardened criminals with machetes to save each of his bones. Every negative image he had read about the continent came to the fore and he remembered the warning of his friend Francis in London: “You know, you’re probably going to die.” Tomlinson lay on the stone ground to avoid the filthy mat. His thoughts were a whirlwind of angst.

  He had never expected zoology could be this dangerous. Abdalla was right when he had said that “humans are the biggest danger here.”

  Tomlinson sat like that for hours, imagining the worst. He decided his best tactic would be to tell the policeman everything he knew at this stage and hope the matter wouldn’t reach the provincial or national authorities. He could be painted as a kidnapper, worse still, a paedophile or a child smuggler. Such crimes were happening under people’s noses everywhere and the police would be only too happy to make an example out of him. He imagined the headline in the gutter press tabloids back home. ‘Brit pedo in kid rape safari’ or ‘Oxbridge toff turns human trafficker.’ Tomlinson had written a report of what had happened to Abdalla to the UK Foreign Office through a contact he’d kept after he’d done an internship there two summers ago. A desk officer had offered to set up a meeting with the representatives from the consulate to offer support, which Tomlinson was relieved to hear. Tomlinson was worried that his current situation would scare away the embassy officials and he was adamant to do everything he could to make his escape under their protection if only he could get to them. They had offered a meeting time in the lobby of the New Hotel in Nampula the next day and Tomlinson knew it could be his last chance to avoid a jail sent
ence.

  He lifted his head and saw through the bars of the window that it was dark outside. He cupped some water with his hands from the plastic jerry can and freshened up. When he had finished drinking he heard footsteps. Then the key turned in his door. He prepared himself for the worst. Felisberto stared at Tomlinson without saying anything and motioned with his head for the young Englishman to exit the cell. Tomlinson walked out slowly with his eyes to the ground. Daniel and Cristina were sat on the floor eating. “Don’t you have anywhere to go?” said Felisberto to the interns.

  Cristina hardly looked up from her food. “Lieutenant Samora said we could sleep here for a week until we find lodgings,” said Daniel, tucking into a piece of fish.

  “Sit down,” said Felisberto, pouring Tomlinson a glass of water on the comando’s plastic table.

  “I didn’t tell you everything,” began Tomlinson, hardly pausing for breath, “after Ranger Abdalla was killed, I mean disappeared, although I did hear shots and there were the suspicious movements in Section 3 and the diary and the…”

  Tomlinson paused. He was struggling to express himself in Portuguese.

  “It felt like I had walked into a carefully planned crime and somehow disturbed it,” added Tomlinson.

  Felisberto began taking notes.

  “What time did you last see the boy’s father?” asked the Comandante.

  Tomlinson recounted from the moment he had met Abdalla in Nampula to the last goodbye he had said to the park ranger on that fateful night when things began to go wrong. He didn’t want to talk anymore but he felt he had nothing to lose. Besides, he had to somehow convince this police officer to take him to the meeting with the embassy in Nampula.

  “Why didn’t you report any of this to your superiors?” said Felisberto, one eye on his notes. Tomlinson shifted in his chair.

  “I was afraid.”