The Red Die

by Alex MacBeth

  “I could go undercover,” spelt out Albertina, releasing a loud, sigh of relief afterwards as if she had finally confided a long-held secret.

  “You?” said Amisse sniggering.

  “The Fixer is not a friendly uncle who buys young girls drinks,” said Felisberto patronisingly. “He’s a ruthless assassin. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, chefe, but he also buys young girls drinks.” The men laughed. It was the first time anyone had heard Albertina make a joke. They had grown used to the serious demeanour of the pretty girl with the clipboard who held the comando together with her quiet manner. Now they were seeing her volunteering to lead the battle against one of the country’s most dangerous killers. The Comandante lit a cigarette and toasted a world full of surprises.

  “Maybe it could work,” said Samora.

  Felisberto stared out of the window at the road. He was being asked to send the youngest member of his force into the hands of Mozambique’s most dangerous assassin. He had seen women win whole cities during the war and he had recognised the same fire in Albertina’s eye. Those flames showed him she was one of the sharpest members of his force right now. But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

  “We’ll talk about it after we’ve interviewed Costa,” said Felisberto. Palma was at the forefront of the Comandante’s thoughts, not João The Fixer. Albertina stuck her tongue out at Amisse and left. Felisberto and Samora opened Costa’s cell where the prisoner was smashing his head against the wall.

  “There’s nothing you can do to me that is worse than what my boss will do if I talk,” lamented Costa.

  “Then call your boss,” said Felisberto handing him the phone. Costa hesitated and Felisberto shot him in the foot then raised the gun to his head. “Arrange to meet Palma this evening. Don’t tell him anything about the others,” said the Comandante forcefully.

  “Where are they?” the mercenary asked as blood sprung from his toes. Felisberto ignored his question and dialled the number. He put on the loudspeaker, before handing the heavily handcuffed Costa the phone.

  “Patrão, it’s me,” said Costa, trying not to tremble with the gun in his face. “We need to meet. Mission Notes had some issues.” Costa listened. “Nothing serious. Can we meet this evening?” Costa listened again, said okay and hung up. “So 11pm at ‘the residence,’” the Comandante repeated to no one in particular. He took the phone and walked out of the cell followed by Samora.

  “Are you really planning to take on Palma on his own territory, chefe?” Samora asked the Comandante as he smoked on the steps.

  “What choice do we have?” proffered Felisberto, looking out at the road. Two cars pulled up in front of the comando and Felisberto recognised the distinct faces of old friends walking towards him.

  “Kick you out of Nampula, did they?” Felisberto asked his good friend Naissone, offering his old comrade the raised leg salute.

  “Cut the shit, Matola, what the feck is going on?”

  “Where is Cristina?” added Raquel. “I told you to look after her, not put her in a gunfight.”

  “Where’s Daniel?” asked Naiss, driven on by Raquel’s own fears for her offspring.

  “We’re both okay,” said Cristina, now standing with them. “Daniel is on his way, he was swimming.” Raquel hugged her daughter and Naiss walked towards his bare-chested son in the distance. “Fetch some beers and refrescos, will you kids?” said Naiss handing his son some coins. Daniel and Cristina walked off to buy the drinks.

  “Two attacks in a month on the comando?” said Naiss turning to Felisberto. “Then you disappear and reappear looking like you’ve just been raped by a troupe of Congolese gorillas. I won’t hear any more rubbish about it, what’s going on?” demanded the roaring voice of Nampula’s Head of Immigration.

  “Commander Naissone,” said Naiss, constrainedly calmer, offering a firm hand to Samora.

  “Lieutenant Samora,” replied Mossuril’s Deputy District Head of Police.

  Raquel, who up until now had been handing out pencils to children near the cars, arrived shaking her head.

  “You’ve already lost one man,” she said, leaning out towards the street. “Whoever it is that wants you dead, you’re going to need help to protect you and your men.” Daniel and Cristina returned with the drinks and distributed them, before taking a seat on a wall to the side and playing with their phones.

  Felisberto stubbed out his cigarette and felt irritated by Raquel’s presence. “There’s no manhunt here, boys. As I said, just a few trigger happy rogue gangs,” pleaded the Comandante. The drinks tasted good but Naiss wasn’t in the mood for niceties.

  “Cut the crap, Matola, everybody knows it’s Palma. When I heard from Samora that it was Palma, I wanted to kill you. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  The Comandante gave his deputy an angry look and avoided eye contact with Naiss. After everything they had been through together Felisberto felt he had betrayed Naiss by keeping him in the dark. But he had done it to protect him. Naiss had served an eighteen month jail sentence for being blackmailed in the first place by Palma. If Naiss had the chance to kill Palma, Felisberto was sure he would take it. And vice versa, which is why the Comandante had kept his troubles private.

  “I didn’t want to get you involved,” said Felisberto.

  Costa was calling from the cell.

  “Who have you got in the cell?” asked Naiss, walking up the steps towards the noise. “Is it Palma? Where’s Palma?”

  “Palma’s in Pemba,” said Felisberto. “It’s just one of his cronies.”

  “When are you taking him out?”

  “Palma? We’re not.”

  “When are you taking him out?” repeated Naiss, this time addressing himself to Samora, who had the distinct look of a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  “I’m not su—”

  “When?”

  “Tonight,” said Samora overwhelmed.

  “See? That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Naiss slapped Felisberto on the back and pulled out his mobile.

  “Commander Petinho, please,” began Naiss, talking into the phone and walking away from the comando. He returned a few seconds later holding his palm to the handset.

  “Where is the meeting place?” he asked the Comandante in a whisper.

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “An old friend, he can help us.”

  “Half the Pemba police are under Palma’s pay. If word leaks we’re coming we don’t stand a chance, do you understand? Hang up!” protested Felisberto, standing up and spreading his arms. “This was supposed to be an under the radar—”

  “Hit and run sort of mission?” sneered Raquel, unable to contain a chirpy laugh as she finished Felisberto’s sentence.

  “I fought for four years with Petinho in Nyassa. I trust him like I trust you,” said Naiss. A brief pause ensued.

  “The meeting place, Matola?” pressed Naiss.

  “The roundabout at Wimbi beach, 22.00 tonight.” The Comandante lit a cigarette with the butt of his last and was distracted by a goat delicately balanced on the back of a motorbike driving by the comando.

  “You thought you could do this without us, didn’t you Felis?” said Raquel. Felisberto didn’t react. He certainly didn’t think he needed Raquel’s help, in fact, he didn’t trust her. Still, he had been acting as a renegade alone for too long and he was glad that Naiss was here at least. For the first time in two days he felt safe. The sun was beginning to set over the ocean to the west of the comando. The market, all made out of cement and stone, was bustling with customers buying fresh fish and vegetables from the surrounding machambas. “Three piles for thirty, six for fifty,” screamed one seller whose voice could be heard over all the others. The Comandante walked over and bought a large bottle of coke from Ali, his favourite shopkeeper. Ali owned the corrugated iron shack in a small corner of the farmers’ and fishermen’s market.

  “Hello Comandante, long day again?” said Ali. “Surprised to even see you alive if th
ese rumours are anything to believe,” added the short, stumpy shopkeeper with a vast smile and a lazy eye.

  “I didn’t have you down as a believer of rumours,” replied the Comandante. “You’ll be seeing me for a while longer.” Felisberto bought two extra candles, noting with some surprise that they had tripled in price in the past week, and crossed the wide mud road back to the comando. Children were staring at each other through the bullet holes in the outer wall of the police headquarters as Felisberto walked in. He stopped to watch them and they ran away.

  “See, you even scare children,” said Naiss.

  Amisse, Albertina and Samora prepared a meal of grilled parrot fish and coconut-rice and the Comandante, Raquel and Naiss discussed how they would get to Palma. Felisberto was disappointed Raquel was involved but felt there was little he could to exclude her. He got some temporary relief when she at least drove Cristina and Daniel back to hers.

  They all knew that Palma’s house would be heavily guarded. Even if it was a quiet night there would likely be at least six guards at Palma’s seaside residence and Felisberto needed all the backup he could get. Samora had scoped the place out on Google Earth and had found a potential approach from the East, along the rocks of the coast. Naiss preferred the more direct route, going in shooting through the front gate but Samora’s subtle strategy had prevailed. They would park their cars in a popular hotel car park far from Palma’s residence, then walk up the beach with their weapons in picnic bags.

  Then they would shed their disguises and excessive luggage and approach the house. Felisberto and Naiss would go in first, with Naiss and Samora providing cover. Amisse would drive. Albertina would stay in Mossuril, much to her displeasure. Paul was guarding the comando.

  He had not wanted to stay. He had said he was “predisposed for such precarious heteroclite affairs,” which, Felisberto was pretty convinced, meant the young officer was fit for duty. Felisberto ordered him to look after the comando nonetheless.

  The dozen flickering lights on Mossuril’s main thoroughfare in front of the comando shed a toffee light onto the red earth. All that remained at the market were the long stone slabs and pockets of litter. Raquel returned and they set out in a convoy of three cars, one of which they would park in a secondary location for an emergency escape.

  They drove in silence, in and out of the shadows of streetlights, through the same towns and villages they had been policing for over a decade. When they passed the Nampula Wildlife Reserve, the elephant and rhino heads on the billboard were lit up with fairy lights. Costa sat handcuffed between Samora and Raquel. They arrived in Pemba at 9pm and parked one of the cars with a contact of Naissone, who was originally from the city. They met with Comandante Petinho, who greeted them with a warm smile and his usual stutter, at the roundabout at Wimbi beach at 10pm. Petinho took the keys to the larger people carrier they had come in and pointed out a meeting point on a map where he would collect them in an hour and a half. Petinho gave them the map and the others set off with the cuffed prisoner.

  They uncuffed Costa and as they walked up the boulevard, past the local police station, under the palms and the moonlight, six men taking a stroll at 10.15pm, Felisberto kept his gun in Costa’s back. When they were out of sight of the last residences on the promenade, they walked up the beach and climbed round the protruding rock to cover. They cuffed Costa again, turned off their mobiles, checked their weapons and went over the plan for the last time.

  Felisberto walked behind the prisoner, occasionally nudging him with his gun to deter him from fleeing. They walked for around forty-five minutes, cutting through tracks of sand, seaweed, coral and rock. They passed by a dozen luxurious architect-designed villas, each with illuminated gardens leading down to the beach. They passed a couple making out in a car above the beach and walked on. Naissone panicked and wanted to tie up the young lovers but the majority agreed they couldn’t be identified in the dark from that distance.

  As the coastline soared on, a cluster of lights announced a particularly large villa atop a mound in the distance. “That’s the place,” said the prisoner, responding to a poke from Felisberto after Samora had posed the question. They split into three groups of two and assumed their positions for their planned approaches. Felisberto and Samora uncuffed the prisoner and pushed him towards the back gate. The Comandante gave Costa the signal and pushed back. Costa knocked on the gate.

  “What do you want?” asked a hyped-up guard.

  “It’s Costa,” replied the prisoner with the Comandante’s gun aimed firmly at his head. “I’m meeting o patrão”.

  The guard opened a peephole and scoured Costa before slowly opening the gate. Costa looked around before taking a hesitant step forward. The guard who had opened the gate fell to the ground with a bullet to the head. Raquel and Naissone assumed a high position above the outer wall and were ready to take out the first layer of security guarding the gate. But there were none tonight, none that anyone could see at least. Felisberto signalled to Samora to move in with him fast. Amisse, who had arrived via the long outer wall, followed the Comandante and Samora into Palma’s compound.

  Inside the small square it was quiet, apart from the trickling sound of water from the fountain in the middle of the lawn. Two bodies lay strewn on the marble paths, including Costa’s. Where was everybody else? They had expected at least a dozen guards at the gate. Felisberto led his men to cover under an arch in a corner of the square and regrouped. They heard footsteps above and a shower of gunfire rained into the compound for about thirty seconds. Then a sniper appeared in the corner of the square. Felisberto watched him. Another white mercenary, probably hired from the ranks of former torture and assassination specialists in the apartheid-era South African army, thought the Comandante. Another white man with a gun appeared in the opposite corner of the square. Felisberto signalled to Samora to take the one on the left. He focused his own gun on the armed man furthest away. Before either could strike, both mercenary warlords had disappeared. Felisberto listened. There was nobody there.

  He waited then fired again before reloading. A rat had begun to nibble at the corpses lying in the square, punctuating the subsequent silence with a gnawing sound. Amisse lit a cigarette and could hardly hold it. He was shaking. The Comandante’s young unit had never been trained for such missions and he knew he couldn’t push his cadet too far. He ordered Amisse to hold the position under the arch and moved on with Samora and Naiss who had just jumped across the wall. They climbed the steps, back-to-back, and surfaced on a terrace overlooking the ocean. Six people were sitting at a table inside a room in the distance. Felisberto could see through the beige curtain that Palma was sat in the middle.

  The Comandante, Samora and Naiss crawled to the edge of the open window. Judging from the relative tranquillity at the dinner table, news of the break-in had not yet reached Palma, although Felisberto knew it was only a matter of time before it would. They’d have to act fast. The Comandante smashed into the room with Samora and Naiss following straight behind him. Samora took out a tall man with a gun in his hand and Naiss and Felisberto approached the table.

  “Comandante, if I’d known you were bringing so many guests, such illustrious ones as Captain Naiss here, I would have had my servants lay more plates,” said Palma, apparently unsurprised by the intrusion.

  The Comandante pulled Palma out of his chair. Naiss punched him right in the nose. “It’s time to go,” said Felisberto dragging Palma out of the door.

  “What is going on?” screeched one of the guests.

  Despite watching their host being pulled out of his chair by marauding armed invaders, none of the guests did anything to intervene. Felisberto dragged Palma, who put up limited resistance to the Comandante’s firm grip, out of the open window, across the terrace and down the steps to the arch. The Comandante called Amisse, handcuffed Palma and pushed him out of the gate and onto the beach. Palma laughed.

  “What kind of a kidnap plan is this?” said Palma. They walked up the
beach with Amisse covering nervously behind them. Suddenly two men on quads appeared from the trees. Felisberto took aim and fired but the men backed off. Raquel emerged moments afterwards out of the darkness.

  “Walk,” said Felisberto to Palma. They ventured to a quiet beach accessible via a dirt track where Petinho had told them to meet him. He wasn’t there. They sat behind the limited cover of a bush and waited. There was nobody in sight. The only sound came from the gentle waves caressing the white shoreline. Mountains, lakes, rivers, savannas, forests, the earth – and all that hides below – and the queen of them all, the ocean, thought Felisberto. The Comandante reflected on the wealth of his nation, trampled on by malignant crooks like Palma. The headlights of a car lit up a palm tree and Naissone slowly lifted his head from the bush. It was Petinho.

  “Where have you been, you fool?” roared Naissone. “Do you think we bought cards and whiskey with us?”

  “I-I-I’m sorry,” said Petinho, gesturing in multiple ways with his hands as if to signify he had been overcome by a myriad of unexpected delays. Naissone heavy-handedly put Palma into the boot and they drove off. They had decided they would get back to Mossuril in the dead of night to avoid any police blocks. It would be hard for the six officers to explain to their colleagues why they were carrying a well-known former minister in the boot of their car should they be searched at one of the many roadblocks after 5.30am.

  They collected the car and said goodbye to Petinho. Naissone slipped his former comrade a freshly crisp note for some beers and asked him to promise to keep the snatch-and-grab operation quiet. “N-n-n-no problem,” said Petinho, skipping away happily to the nearest bar. They dropped Amisse and Samora off at the third car and decided they would drive home at intervals fifteen minutes apart to avoid any suspicions. The spirits could talk and news of their mission could easily reach Mossuril before they did.

  After passing Namapa and refuelling, they reached an unexpected roadblock.

  “Stay cool, boys,” said Naiss.

  “Who is it?” asked Raquel, squinting to see which officer was shining a spotlight on them from a distance.