‘To the Copper Belt. It’s a little company called Mazokapharm, located just outside Ndola. Used to be a contractor for one of the big boys out of Switzerland.’
‘Used to be? What happened?’
‘Not sure why, but they lost the contract a while back. I don’t think there was anything wrong with what they were doing. Just a question of commerce, I think. I’ve met Kabwe Mazoka but only once. Ask WB; I think he knew Mazoka senior, the guy who set the place up. He’ll give you some background.’
‘Okay, I’ll do that next time I go to the safe house. Right, let’s see if we can knock the rest of this schedule into shape, shall we?
‘Ah, yes’ said WB later that week when Suzanne went to visit him and Sara. ‘Mazokapharm. Nice little factory, that was. So sad.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, it was built by Joshua Mazoka back in the 1970s, I think. Yes, that’s about right; it was just after TAZARA was opened.’
‘TAZARA?’
‘The Tanzania-Zambia Railway. My late father, God rest him, was an engineer on the project and actually travelled on the first train to make the journey from Dodoma to Lusaka. I was working as a pharmacist in South Africa at the time and came up here to meet him. I’d not been home for a few years you see and my mother…’
WB stared off into the distance, rubbing the tiny scar on the inside of his right wrist with his left thumb. Suzanne cleared her throat and he gave a start, as though he’d forgotten she was there.
‘I’m sorry, Suzanne,’ he went on, ‘I was just thinking about …’ But then he shook his head and smiled at her. ‘Now where was I?’
‘Mazokapharm?’
‘Yes, of course. Well, as I was here, I thought I’d make some contacts—you never know when they might come in handy.’
‘Well, you certainly seem well-connected,’ she said—and he inclined his head in acknowledgement before continuing.
‘Joshua was in town at the same time and we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance. He was a few years older than me, but we struck up a friendship and kept in touch after we’d both left Lusaka. His factory was working as a contractor for a European company, although I can’t remember which one.’
‘Chibesa said he thought the contract was with a Swiss firm.’
‘Hmm, yes, that rings a bell. Anyway, I saw him from time to time over the years, although we didn’t write so much as we got older and our lives were busier—and then about five years ago, I heard he’d died. I wrote to his widow to offer my condolences, but never got a reply.’
‘And they lost the contract after his death?’ Suzanne asked. But WB shook his head.
‘No, I think that happened the year before. I don’t believe there was a quality problem or anything. The Swiss company got bought out in one of the industry mergers, I think. It’s been happening all over the region. Multinationals merging; too many factories making the same products; rationalisation, it’s called.’
‘That must have been devastating after all those years?’
‘True; in fact I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that didn’t contribute to Joshua’s death.’
‘So who’s running the company now?’
‘Well, he had a couple of older sons, but I don’t think they’re still around. There was a much younger boy as well; I suppose it would be him. Name began with a K; Kwame? No that doesn’t sound right. Kabwe, that’s it! Kabwe Mazoka. Bright little lad he was, according to Joshua, when I first knew them; but that was before the accident. A fork-lift truck ran into one of the stacks in the warehouse and knocked a drum of chemicals off the top shelf. It landed on the boy; he was lucky he wasn’t killed, really, but it made a proper mess of his arm. He changed after that; became quieter, more self-conscious.’
Suzanne knew she was a soft touch, but the story of Mazokapharm, Joshua and Kabwe had convinced her. She would find the time to visit Ndola before this trip finished.
‘And if they’ve got years of experience working under contract already, they should be in a reasonable state,’ she said. ‘Who knows, maybe the project is further advanced than we realise.’ WB smiled at her and nodded.
‘Yes, that’s true—and it would be really good if we could do something for Joshua’s son. Maybe I’ll risk breaking cover and come with you. It would be nice to finally see the factory I’ve heard so much about over the years—and pay my respects in person to Joshua’s widow.’
16: ZAMBIA; DEC 2004
When Suzanne arrived at Mazokapharm the following Monday, Kabwe Mazoka took her to his office and gave her sweet milky tea, made with evaporated milk, while she explained the purpose of her visit and what she hoped to achieve.
‘So you see,’ she said, ‘we’re trying to identify a few companies that will act as pilots in the study we want to carry out. If we can strengthen the legitimate industry, we have more chance of stamping out the illegal trade and putting the counterfeiters out of business.’ She also told Kabwe it was WB who had recommended involving Mazokapharm in the pilot study.
‘He has fond memories of your father,’ she said. ‘He tells me Joshua Mazoka ran a very tight ship; otherwise, the principal contractor would have pulled the plug years ago. WB knows you’ve been in charge now for a few years; he’s keen to hear how you’re getting on.’
WB had wanted to come with her on this trip, but they’d decided it wasn’t safe. While they’d managed to get word to his wife, to the rest of the world they were still maintaining the fiction that he’d disappeared, and they agreed it wasn’t sensible for him to start travelling around Africa again, using his passport.
And for some reason, Chibesa had been reluctant to accompany her on this trip. He’d pleaded concern about Samuel’s health and although Suzanne suspected that wasn’t the only reason, she didn’t push him. It was only a day trip, after all. So Suzanne had travelled alone. She was used to doing solo trips but now, dealing with Kabwe, she wished one of her African colleagues was with her. They would certainly have been able to work out what was wrong. And something was definitely wrong.
Suzanne watched Kabwe as he led her around the factory. What on earth was wrong with the man? There was sweat rolling down his face and soaking into the collar of his white coat. She found it hot, and had spent far longer inspecting the interior of the cold room than was strictly necessary, but she thought a local would be used to the heat. Kabwe had a folded handkerchief in his undamaged left hand which he used constantly to mop his face. His voice kept breaking and he frequently had to cough and start a sentence again. She didn’t understand it. He’d been fine earlier on, happy to chat about his father and the history of the company. He’d treated her to a large lunch; an old trick she had seen during many inspections—the longer you can keep an inspector in the canteen, the less time they have to actually inspect the premises and therefore the less chance there is of finding something going wrong.
Then, at some point during the afternoon, something had changed and Kabwe Mazoka was obviously concerned, even frightened; although she couldn’t understand why. The factory was a little old-fashioned, some of the rooms were not as pristine as they might have been, and they really should have replaced the glass in the broken windows but, despite its history, it was still a tiny company in the middle of nowhere, up a dirt track. She wasn’t expecting miracles.
‘Okay, Mr Mazoka,’ she said now, thinking it was time to let him off the hook, ‘I’ve seen enough of the manufacturing facility. Let’s go back to the office and chat about where we go from here.’ He swallowed hard, nodded and led the way back through the packing hall and across the yard to the administration block, a tiny brick building nestling against the wall of the compound. He looked like he was about to burst into tears. What is wrong with this man? she thought again.
‘Well, you could do with a bit of refurbishment, but generally, everything seems to be fine out in the factory,’ she said as they brought her yet another cup of tea, ‘and some of those contracts you’ve got are quite impr
essive.’ She’d spotted a label for one of the biggest American companies on a shelf in the warehouse. ‘I’ll need to check with some of the principals that they are okay with us using you as an example, but I can’t see any problem.’ She consulted her notes once more. ‘Just one thing before I get out of your hair,’ then, realising he looked confused at this peculiarly British phrase, she went on, ‘I mean, before I head back to the airport and leave you in peace; I’d like to see a couple of examples of batch documents—and if you can give me the names of your contacts at a couple of the contractors, that would be great.’ Kabwe looked startled, then slowly, he shook his head.
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Suzanne, but the documents are all locked in the laboratory and my quality control manager has gone home.’
‘And you don’t have a spare key?’
‘Regretfully, no. We take the separation of production and quality control very seriously here.’ Suzanne thought this a commendable sentiment, although, if she was honest, she found it hard to believe and suspected the spare key had merely been lost.
‘And the contact names…’ she asked, without much hope.
‘My business manager has them, but she’s already—’
‘—don’t tell me—she’s gone home too.’ There was a note of asperity in Suzanne’s voice that she knew shouldn’t be there, but she was disappointed at the sudden lack of co-operation from Kabwe. She looked at her watch. It was approaching six-thirty. ‘Goodness, I’m sorry; I’ve kept you much longer than expected,’ she went on.
‘I can send you the details tomorrow, by express courier,’ Kabwe said. ‘Now, Mrs Suzanne, if you are to get to the airport in time, you need to leave now. Your taxi is here.’
As he led the way out of the building, the short African dusk was fading and a deep cloak of darkness descended over the factory grounds. A broken-down Ford was sitting in the yard, its engine running. The driver lounged against the bonnet, chatting to one of the women Suzanne had seen in the packing hall, but as his passenger approached, he jumped to attention and the woman melted away into the darkness without a word. Suzanne stopped dead.
‘But what’s happened to the airport car; the one that brought me here? I arranged for him to pick me up at six forty-five to take me back.’ Kabwe shrugged and shook his head.
‘Very sorry, Mrs Suzanne,’ he said. Your driver called to say he had a puncture and wouldn’t be able to get here in time. Joe Simons here,’ indicating the driver who was now standing so straight he looked like he was on the parade ground, ‘he does some driving for us occasionally. He’s agreed to take you.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Suzanne said, looking with distaste at the dusty, dilapidated vehicle and regretting the cream suit she was wearing. ‘Let’s get on. I don’t want to miss my plane.’
She and Kabwe shook hands; he was still sweating and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. She really must work on her empathetic skills, she thought, if she could have this sort of effect on someone, especially when she wasn’t giving them a hard time at all. Just imagine what he’d have been like if this had been an official inspection resulting from a complaint, rather than an informal audit.
As the taxi pulled out of the site, Suzanne looked back at Kabwe. He was staring after the car with a horrified expression on his face. Gosh, I really must work on my technique, she thought. The poor fellow looks traumatised.
They reached the bottom of the steep lane and turned onto the main road. As the driver put his foot down and the car started to speed towards the airport, another vehicle passed them, going in the other direction. It was silver and large. Suzanne sat up straight and looked around.
‘That looks like my car,’ she called out, tapping the driver on the shoulder. His eyes met hers in the mirror and he shook his head.
‘No, lady, you mistaken,’ he said, as the car sped even faster along the road.
Suzanne sat back, irritated, but not sure what she could do. ‘I’ll probably have to pay for both cars now,’ she muttered,’ ‘although if the other one said he wasn’t coming, I guess they cancelled, not me.’
Abruptly, the car slowed, and then ground to a halt.
‘What’s happening now?’ she asked. The driver pointed out of the windscreen.
‘Roadblock,’ he said. Suzanne peered into the gloom and could just make out dark figures standing in front of a makeshift barrier of tyres and packing cases. To one side of the road, a fire flickered in an old oil drum and Suzanne could see the flames reflected in the metal of the guns held in the hands of the men manning the barricade. One of them strolled over to the car and rapped on the driver’s window. Glancing over his shoulder at her with an uncertain look on his face, he rolled down the window.
The conversation was incomprehensible to Suzanne, but she could tell it was not a friendly one. The man with the gun, who seemed to be wearing some sort of military uniform, shouted questions at the driver who answered them quickly and quietly to begin with, but gradually got louder. In the end the two men were both yelling at the same time. Then, abruptly, the noise stopped and the soldier turned and started walking around the car. Suzanne held her breath, but he walked straight past the rear door and round to the back. He popped open the trunk, stood for a short while looking inside, then slammed it shut again. He shouted a single word to his compatriots at the barricade who pulled some of the boxes to one side and waved them forward. As the car eased its way through, the soldiers saluted, with what looked to Suzanne more like irony than genuine respect.
‘What on earth was all that about?’ she asked.
‘They’re looking for weapons. They think they’re smuggled into the country on this road.’
‘Well, thank goodness they allowed us through.’ As they continued to drive into the darkness, Suzanne wondered why the road block would be looking for smugglers driving towards the airport, rather than away from it, but she didn’t bother to raise the question with the driver.
They’d been driving for nearly half an hour since they left the factory, which puzzled Suzanne. She was sure it had only taken half that time to make the journey in the other direction that morning.
‘Are we nearly there?’ she said, tapping the driver on the shoulder. But he just glanced at her through the driver’s mirror and put his foot down even more. ‘I said, are we nearly there?’ she repeated. ‘We’ve been driving for ages. Are you sure this is the right way? It was much shorter this morning.’
‘Different road,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘Other one closed. Traffic accident.’ Suzanne knew this was a common occurrence, especially on the unlit roads on the outskirts of towns.
Suddenly, the driver wrenched the steering wheel sideways and took a tight left turn. The darkness, if possible, thickened even more and as they drove between trees on a narrow track. Suzanne held her breath and stared out of the window. Then she spotted a light on the road ahead of them. The driver slammed his foot on the brake and Suzanne was thrown forward as the car came to a skidding stop. The back door flew open and she was dazzled as a blinding light shone directly in her face.
‘Get out,’ a rough voice hissed at her.
‘I will not—’ but strong arms seized her and dragged her out onto the ground. With the light still shining in her eyes, she couldn’t see who was there, or how many. Someone stepped up behind her, and pinned her arms by her side, then a coarse canvas bag was pulled over her head.
‘Stand up,’ said the same voice. She was yanked to her feet and half walked, half dragged across the track. Then the sound of their feet changed from muffled to hollow and it felt firmer under foot; they appeared to be entering a building. She was pushed across the room until her legs hit the frame of a bed. Losing her balance, she fell across it, feeling rough wool under her hands and smelling the musty odour of blankets stored too long without air. As the hands left her, she ripped the bag from her head and rolled over to see her assailants. But she was too late. The door banged shut, a bolt crashed home, running feet moved away fr
om the building and then, the worst sound of all, she heard laughter and slamming car doors, before the vehicle drove off into the night.
Silence descended. And she realised her handbag and briefcase were still in the car. She had no means of communication. Suzanne was alone, in the dark. She had no idea where she was. And neither did anyone else.
17: ZAMBIA; DEC 2004
Suzanne sat motionless in the pitch black hut, waiting. Waiting for the car to return; waiting for the men to tell her she was free to go; waiting for someone, anyone to drive her back to the airport and let her continue with her journey. She would not let herself believe this was really happening. It was all a mistake. It had to be.
Eventually, she forced herself to stand—on legs so cold and cramped, they buckled beneath her, throwing her back onto the bed. She tried again—and again, until finally she was able to remain upright. She began to explore the hut with her hands. Apart from the bed, there was a table, rough wood that caught at her fingers as she stroked its surface, a single chair and a bucket in the corner. She pushed that away in disgust. She wouldn’t be here long enough to use that.
A jug stood on the table. Picking it up, she heard the contents slosh around inside and guessed it was about half-full. It was warm to her touch and gave off a slight metallic odour. She was parched and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth; but she didn’t dare risk drinking this unseen liquid.
Finally she threw herself onto the bed, shivering in the night air. Wrapping the noxious blanket around her she lay shuddering, listening to the sounds of the African bush around her. Did the world of nature herald even more danger than the terrible human world she had stumbled upon? Her mind told her stories of snakes, long sinuous shapes that could slip through spaces too small for humans to see, and insects—especially insects. There was a persistent whine of mosquitoes. She pulled the blanket over her head, but the stench made her gag and she pushed it away, gasping for air. Instead, she tried to block out the sound by stuffing her fingers in her ears. She tried not to think about what other creatures might be with her in the hut, the bed or the blanket. The rising panic kept her awake for a long time and when she did drift off to sleep, it was to recurring dreams of being eaten alive by giant insects.
Counterfeit! Page 9
