Chapter 6
McBride woke to the sound of a door bell. By the time he had realized where he was, there was a soft rap on the bedroom door and a black middle-aged servant was wheeling a food trolley into the room.
“Would you like breakfast in bed, or in the dining room, Sir?”
“In the dining room please,”
McBride got out of bed, grabbed a robe from the back of the bedroom door and followed the trolley and waiter out of the bedroom. As McBride entered the dining room, the servant was already laying out the dishes, and McBride sat down. A large glass of tomato juice stood in front of him, and a coffee pot and milk jug was placed on the table.
“Fresh Melon,” said the servant, placing another dish from the trolley.
“Toast”, and finally, “special Maswatiland menu, sour milk porridge.”
McBride smelled the porridge, took a spoonful, pulled a face and pushed the dish to the farthest side of the table.
Long before ten o’clock, McBride had sorted his luggage, shaved, dressed in what he thought might be suitable wear to meet the king. A smart casual jacket, lightweight dark blue, with dark brown trousers and slip on leather shoes by Barker. He recalled that Dusty had told him the king was educated in England. He assumed he would be rich and wear the latest English fashions.
He was in the dining room standing and looking through the window at the square outside the palace now swirling with traffic. At the far side of the square, stalls were being set up. He heard a knock on the outside door, and then the door opened, and his old friend Dusty Miller strode in, dressed in his regular officer khaki uniform. “Hello, old man,” he said. “Are we looking after you all right?”
“Good to see you,” grinned McBride, shaking his hand. “The service so far is first class.”
“Come on now, and meet the king. We are going to have a conference on this Markham fellow.”
He led the way through a couple of corridors, and down a set of wide stairs to the ground floor. He stopped by a door, and rapped softly, and then entered. McBride followed. Across the room a woman, dressed in smart office wear, sat at a desk behind a computer. She looked up and smiled at Dusty Miller.
“You’re here for your appointment?”
Dusty nodded, and she picked up an old fashioned desk telephone handset, spoke into it briefly.
“You can go in now, Brigadier.”
Dusty pulled back the door into the next room. The king rose from his desk and came across the room. McBride saw a tall man, maybe nearly six feet, young, only late thirties, handsome negroid features, close cropped hair. He was wearing a grey lightweight suit, undoubtedly tailored in London, white shirt and blue plain tie. He had on Barker dark tan loafers.
The king reached out his hand to McBride. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr McBride. Welcome to my country.”
McBride grasped his hand, and gave a slight bow of the head. “I am delighted to meet you, your majesty.”
The king led the way to a conference table at the far side of the room.
“Let us sit down and start work straight away about what I call the Markham affair.” He gave McBride a slight wink.
The three of them pulled up their chairs, and the king passed pads of plain paper, and also a précis of what had been discussed previously. “I will just give Mr McBride a few moments to read the notes so that he is up-to-date on where we have got to.”
McBride quickly scanned the typewritten sheet. It was well-written. Starting with the problem: How to extract cash from a crook who had stolen some thirty million pounds from investors. Markham’s background – McBride had done this research online himself, so skipped this section.
Next they had brainstormed suggestions, it looked like to McBride:
Temporary cash loan, repaid double.
Chance to live outside South Africa, but in close touch.
Kidnap and ransom.
Other apparently money making opportunities.
When he had finished reading, McBride saw the king was waiting for his comments.
“Chance to live outside South Africa? What does that mean.?”
“Our Mr Markham is having security problems. There is a lot of crime targeting the white population. Since the end of apartheid nearly half a million whites have emigrated. For a rich white the problem is acute. Mostly, they live in gated communities. Even so, these communities are regularly raided by lorry-loads of heavily armed criminals. We just thought that as part of a scam, we could offer safe refuge in Maswatiland.”
“Surely, Markham could just come and live here, buy a property.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” said Dusty. “Immigration is strictly controlled. Otherwise we would be inundated by a wave of South Africans moving in. So a Maswatiland passport is invaluable.”
“That should be a tie-in to some money loan.” McBride had thought of something, but was reluctant to voice his thoughts to the king. The king was quick to pick up on the hesitation.
“You just had an idea, but then you are frightened of offending me. Come on, spill the beans.” He beamed, knowingly using an outdated idiom.
“We could say that you had a relative that was planning a coup, overthrowing you. This character would need a temporary loan to hire an air strike, and mercenaries on the ground. Once the coup was successful, your man would be able to repay the loan out of treasury funds. And award a passport as a bonus.”
There was silence round the table, and McBride was fearful that he had offended the king. He looked round at the other two. They were both beaming widely. “By God, yes, that would work,” the king exploded, rising from his chair in excitement. “I could play the part of my brother, disguise myself.” He turned to the table from the other end of the office. “I don’t have a brother, actually. We could make one up, plant stories on the web, couldn’t we, Dusty?”
“I suppose so… I don’t see the profit here. We use the money to fake a coup. That would cost what we have just taken from Markham?”
McBride said: “Oh no, Dusty. You are missing something here.”
The king said: “You need to think outside the box, Brigadier. Right Mr McBride, we need to work fast. We have already sent an invitation to Markham to attend an embassy function in Jo’burg.”
“The Maswatiland embassy?”
“Of course.”
“How many embassies do you have?”
The king’s eyes twinkled. “Just the one. South Africa is an important neighbour. Now we have to work fast. The function is to welcome you, Mr McBride to the area to paint the wildlife. I shall be there as my fictional brother, so I must practise my disguise, and we have to scatter the world wide web with disinformation.”
“He may not attend, even though he has an invitation,” Dusty pointed out.
“Then we try something else. I think the plan is sound. It is just about presenting the bait in the right way,” said McBride.
“Next is to get your paints out, Mr McBride, and start painting the animals.” The king squared off the papers in front of him and stood up. “Thank you both for attending. I hope we can dine together tonight. Tomorrow, Mr McBride you must leave early and visit, I suggest, the nearest reserve. It is only one and a half hours away. I will lend you my chauffeur, the one who brought you from the airport. Book in to the motel there, and you will have two days of painting. At the end of that time you will have how many paintings?”
“Maybe six. It depends.”
“Then stay another day. That will make nine.”
“We shall need them framing. Is that possible?”
“Of course it is. We may be lowly natives, but there are shops in this kraal. One of the shops is a very regarded picture framer. I will introduce you.”
The Ponzi Men Page 6
