The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 24

  Bo’s brow was creased. “What do you mean, he’s not McBride? He was the only man in Bungalow seven.”

  “I’m telling you, I saw McBride eating breakfast in the camp soon after eight this morning. You’ve got his friend, a soldier.”

  “That’s maybe why he struggles. And, man, he’s big and strong. Are we going to let him go?”

  “I don’t think so. He was involved in getting my money. I remember his name now, Miller, or something. I saw his name on a list of people in the South African Trust Scheme. Lent him and McBride and this guy who claimed to be the king’s brother, though I don’t think he was, ten million pounds sterling to finance a military coup. I think we’ll see what the king says. I can see him putting up the cash. After all it was mine in the first place.” Well, he thought, it had been in my possession for a long time, even if it wasn’t strictly mine.

  The car had reached the fence. Bo had left the gates open, so he drove through and put the car in the double garage, next to a Range Rover. As Markham got out of the car, he nodded at the other car.

  “This is McBride’s car?”

  “Yes, unless it’s the other man’s.”

  “Right, let’s go and talk to this brigadier.”

  Bo said: “You close the garage doors, I’ll go and close the gates.”

  When Bo came back, Markham was standing in front of the house waiting.

  Bo led the way to a door from the garage that led directly into the house. He used a key, and cautiously opened it. There was no sound from the inside. Bo beckoned Markham in and locked the door behind him. He then took out his pistol.

  They climbed the stairs, Bo leading. He turned at the top, went into a bedroom, then stood by the door of the en suite.

  Bo whispered: “Stand back” and swung the door smartly inwards. He leant forward, his pistol still in his hand, raised ready for use.

  Miller was sitting in the far corner. His eyes opened, but he didn’t try to stand.

  “Brigadier Miller. Do you remember me?”

  Miller nodded, and tried to say something, but it was unintelligible through the gag.

  “Cut his gag off, Bo.”

  “He shouts something dreadful.”

  “Do it.”

  Bo handed the pistol to Markham, got a penknife out of his pocket, bent over Miller, cut the rope at the back of his neck. Miller opened and closed his mouth a few times.

  “Can I have a drink of water?”

  Bo looked at Markham. “Have you brought some?”

  “Yes, it’s downstairs in the car. And some food. In a carrier bag behind the front seat.”

  Bo left the room.

  Markham said to Miller: “Don’t try anything. I shoot first and ask questions after that.”

  Bo came back within a few seconds, swinging the carrier bag.

  “This won’t feed the three of us for long.”

  “We’ll think about that in a moment. Is there any water to the house?”

  “No. But there’s a stream not far away, the water looks good to drink.”“Another thing is the bogs. No water, so no using the plumbing. I’ll go outside and dig a hole in the garden. If I can find a spade. Otherwise, it’s a bucket, and throw it off the cliff.”

  Markham shuddered. He never liked to talk about human waste problems. Miller just watched them and added nothing to the conversation. Bo dug into the carrier bag, found a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, put it to Miller’s lips, and tilted the bottle. Miller began to drink greedily, and a lot of water ran down his bare chest. He turned his face aside to indicate he had drunk enough. Even more water ran down his chest, soaked his boxer shorts, which was all he was wearing.

  “Okay,” said Markham, “I have to publicize this kidnap, and get hold of this king man. So I’ll be on my cell phone. In the meantime, feed Miller and yourself. Bo, have we got a phone signal up here?”

  “Yes, boss. Quite good.”

  Markham went downstairs, and out of the house at the back. What was going to be the garden was just a level patch of baked earth with a few skimpy weeds. He leaned against the back door, where there was some shade from the strong sun.

  He phoned the operator got phone numbers for the Jo’burg Sun, and also an international number for the king’s palace in Mawabane, Maswatiland.

  He phoned The Sun first, asked for the newsroom. “What I am going to tell you will be your headline tomorrow, so listen carefully.

  “I have kidnapped Brigadier Miller of Maswatiland. The king has duped me out of ten million pounds sterling. When he repays me, I will release the brigadier. The king has three days to pay the ransom, and in the meantime no harm will befall Miller. If no ransom is paid, the brigadier will be killed.”

  The reporter said: “I have all that written down. What is your name?”

  “You think I’ll fall for that trick. Please credit me with some sense.”

  “You sound as if you’re English. Can you confirm that?”

  “No comment. If you have no sensible questions I will ring off now.”

  “Are you speaking from South Africa?”

  “Yes. Goodbye.”

  Markham had just thought that they were trying to trace his call, keeping him on the line as long as possible. He heard the sound of a plane. No, it was a helicopter, approaching fast. He looked up, and then pressed his body even tighter against the house wall. In the shade of the eaves, it was unlikely he could be seen from the air. It was a police helicopter. It hovered for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only seconds, then swept away, rising rapidly. The sun glinted off the police insignia on the side of the craft. Sod it, they were searching already.

  He looked down at the phone, dialed a long number and put the instrument back to his ear. A long wait and then the dialing tone.

  A voice in English: “This is the Palace of the King of Maswatiland. What extension do you need?”

  “The King’s secretary, please. I have an urgent message.”

  The next person to speak was a male voice. “This is the King’s secretary.”

  “I have a message for the king. Brigadier Miller has been kidnapped, and is being ransomed for ten million pounds sterling. I will wait for three days, and if the ransom is not paid, then the brigadier will be killed. Expect me to phone again tomorrow and the day after.” Markham clicked the phone off. That was all the telephoning he was going to do today.

  He went back into the house, climbed the stairs, went into the master bedroom. On the floor by the window, Miller and Bo sat together. It looked as if they were having a picnic. Food that he had brought had been taken out of the carrier bag and placed on the bare floorboards. Bo had made some attempt at constructing sandwiches. Difficult without any knives, other than Bo’s penknife.

  He was feeding Miller by holding the food to his mouth, since Miller was still bound hands and ankles. When Bo wasn’t doing that, he was feeding himself. Markham saw that there was very little food left for himself. And it was only early afternoon of day one.

  “Are you going out for some more food, Bo? Or shall we scavenge in the bush, or catch animals and cook them?”

  “Impossible,” said Bo.

  “Exactly, it was a rhetorical question. You must think ahead, otherwise you’ll spend your life as a savage.”

  Bo glared at him. “Why didn’t you bring more food?”

  “Fuck off,” said Markham. “Spend a bit of time thinking about getting more food, and drink, too. I can tell you that the police are searching already. They flew round the houses in a helicopter. So, if you go for food by car, they probably have the registration numbers. You’ll be taking a risk.”

  Bo pondered, still chewing. “We could switch the plates. That might fool them for a while.”

  “The police are no fools, despite common thinking. I don’t think that would trick them.”

  “Then here’s a good idea. We’ll switch the plates with that old digger that’s been abandoned further up the
site. I expect it would have plates.”

  “You’ll have to wait until dark, to go out now, if the police are keeping a check by air.” He decided to join the other two on the floor before all the food had gone. He sat on the opposite side from Miller, Bo between them both. He reached out and grabbed some bread, and then broke off some cheese from the slab. Miller was munching, making no attempt to speak. Since his capture, he seemed to have turned in on himself. Or he could be hatching an escape plot.