Counterfeit!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  She looked again around the room and noticed things that had passed her by the first time. The papers and magazines on the desk were in a less tidy pile than she had left them—and the folder on the top was not the one she’d been looking at last. Then she remembered her briefcase and looked around in a panic. Where was it? She’d left it under the desk when she came back from the factory that day. She knew it had been there—against the inside of the left leg, just as it always was. But now it wasn’t there. After scrabbling around in a panic for a few seconds, she found it under the bed. Clicking it open, she confirmed everything was still in its place, although the corners of the papers were bent and dog-eared; not in the perfect condition in which she had left them.

  Now she was definitely getting spooked. There was no getting away from the fact that someone had been in her room; whether it was the maid she’d surprised in the bathroom or someone else, she couldn’t tell at this point. But whoever it was wanted to frighten her. There was just enough going on to scare her, without giving her any explanation of why they had been there or what they were looking for.

  Suzanne returned to the wardrobe and looked speculatively at the safe. It was locked, that was for sure. She’d checked it earlier and she checked it again now. But had it been disturbed? Sighing, she keyed in the six digit code—the day she’d got her first pet back when she was a teenager—and pulled open the door.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she confirmed that the contents were untouched. Her passport, a copy of her visas, her wallet with the extra cash she’d brought for emergencies, and the envelope of notes she’d made on the case so far—including some of the details from Sara’s story. Whoever had been in her room hadn’t been through this stuff. ‘Unless they were able to open it, take the details they wanted, and then replace everything carefully to put me off the scent,’ she mused now. Then she smiled and shook her head. ‘No, I’d have been able to spot that. They’re much too untidy and careless to do it that well.’

  She relocked the safe, pushed her suitcase on the floor to repack in the morning, climbed back into bed and switched off the light once more. But it was a long time before she could get to sleep.

  At breakfast the next morning, she told WB of her disturbed night, her suspicions about the maid, and the fact that someone had been through her room. Neither Charlie nor Chibesa had put in an appearance yet and Suzanne assumed they were sleeping off last night’s rum punches.

  ‘Would you like me to talk to the hotel manager?’ WB asked. Suzanne smiled at him.

  ‘Don’t tell me—you know him from your days back in school?’

  ‘University, actually, but yes, I know him and he owes me a favour.’

  ‘Well, it might be a good idea to have a chat with him, although I’ve not got much proof and it seems a bit weak now, in the cold light of day, to say my dirty underwear looked as though it had been rifled and my papers were in a different order. Most people would assume I was imagining things.’ But WB put his hand over hers on the breakfast table and smiled at her gently.

  ‘However, I’m not “most people”, Suzanne,’ he said, ‘and I know you better than that.’ He stood up and threw his napkin on the table. ‘Come on; let’s go and see Henry now.’

  They walked back across the lobby and through the discreet door to the side of the reception area.

  ‘Sir, you can’t go in there,’ squeaked a boy who barely looked old enough to be out of school, let alone manning the reception desk in one of Nairobi’s best hotels. But WB just waved a lazy hand in his direction.

  ‘It’s okay, lad,’ he said, ‘I’m an old friend of Lord Booth. We’re just going to say hello.’ Suzanne looked back over her shoulder at the boy; from his expression, he didn’t seem to know whether he should be surprised, indignant or respectful. In the end, he just shrugged and turned back to the businessman who was waiting to check out.

  At the end of the corridor, a door was marked ‘Hotel Manager’. WB rapped sharply on the panels and on hearing an invitation to ‘come’, pushed open the door and poked his head around it.

  ‘Henry, me old mate, how the devil are you?’ Suzanne giggled at the fake cockney accent coming from the mouth of the huge Ugandan. She heard someone swear in surprise and then the sound of a chair being pushed back.

  ‘Wilberforce, my God, I thought you were dead!’ The voice was deep, rich, plummy—and very definitely British upper class. WB turned back to her and held the door open, gesturing for her to precede him. She walked into the office and found herself looking downwards at a tiny, rotund white man in a brightly coloured waistcoat and matching bow tie. ‘Wowser, who have we here then, Wilberforce?’ he said, looking back up at Suzanne.

  ‘Suzanne, allow me to introduce the Honourable Henry Fortesque Williams, 5th Earl of Branchester, manager of this hotel, but better known to me, at least, as my old mate Henry.’ Then, turning to his friend, ‘Henry, this is Miss Suzanne Jones. She’s with the British government.’ Henry looked a bit concerned at this news—and Suzanne wondered if she should correct the misapprehension, but WB went on and it was too late to say anything. ‘She’s in Kenya on official pharmaceutical business.’

  ‘Well, Miss Jones, I’m delighted to meet you,’ the hotel manager said, pointing to a seating area in the corner of the office away from his desk, ‘sit down, both of you. Can I get you some coffee?’ They both declined and WB rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder.

  ‘Henry, this isn’t a social call, I’m afraid. We can have dinner tonight if you’re free and I can bring you up to date on all the news, but I’m afraid we’re here because Miss Jones believes there was someone in her room yesterday evening, going through her things.’

  Suzanne had never seen such a change come over someone so quickly. In an instant, the colourful clown was gone, replaced by a serious professional hotel manager.

  ‘Tell me,’ was all he said. Haltingly at first, then with more confidence as she realised neither man was looking sceptical, Suzanne told her story once more. ‘And you’re absolutely sure the safe was untouched?’ he asked when she’d finished her story. She nodded her head.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. The necklace I’d been wearing the previous night was lying on top of my travel folder, just where I put it before I left for the Ministry meeting yesterday morning.’

  ‘Hmmm, I wonder…’ he said, staring into space for a few minutes. ‘Miss Jones, I think we’d better go up to your room straight away, if you don’t mind.’ He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a large bunch of keys. ‘I have a suspicion I know what’s going on—but I hope I’m wrong.’

  As the three arrived at the eighth floor, it was a hive of activity. Trolleys were lined up along the corridor and laughter and chatter came from open doors as maids serviced the rooms already vacated by business people on their way to meetings or the airport. As they passed one of the rooms, a young girl walked out to collect supplies from the trolley. She jumped back with a smile when she saw Suzanne and the two men striding along the corridor.

  ‘Good morning, madam, sirs,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Daisy, nice to see you back,’ called Fortesque Williams, not breaking stride. Suzanne hurried after him and as they stopped outside her room, she felt herself going very warm and guessed her face was bright pink.

  ‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘That’s the girl I was suspicious of.’

  ‘Who, Daisy? She’s one of my best members of staff. She’s been with me for years—just got back from a family wedding in Mombasa.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Suzanne, ‘I have a horrible feeling I might have been letting my feelings run away with me. I think this might be a bit of a wild goose chase.’ But WB put his hand on her arm and shook his head.

  ‘With your recent experiences, you have every right to be a little jumpy. If there’s nothing to worry about, then so much the better, but we’ll just check everything through for you, anyway.’ He looked across at his old friend. ‘I’ll explain everything later, Henry.
Let’s just say Miss Jones has not been seeing Africa at its best recently. Now, Suzanne, if you wouldn’t mind…’ and he indicated the door.

  As soon as she walked into the room, Suzanne knew her fears were justified. The maids hadn’t been in yet and the bed was untouched, but the curtains, which she’d left closed, were wide open, as was the wardrobe door and the safe. WB strode across and peered inside.

  ‘All gone, I’m afraid, Suzanne. The safe is completely empty.’ Suzanne sat down with a bump on the bed, clutching her capacious handbag to her chest.

  ‘I was rather afraid of that,’ said Fortesque Williams. He walked over to the safe and ran his fingers across the key pad. ‘It’s a trick I’ve heard used once or twice in the past. Did you notice anything strange about this keypad when you opened the safe last night?’ he asked Suzanne. She shook her head and looked at him in a puzzled way as he continued speaking. ‘Have you ever heard of gangs robbing hole in the wall machines back home?’ She nodded her head.

  ‘Something about stealing numbers when they’re being used by customers?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. There are two ways it can be done. One is to have a person lurking or a camera positioned to observe the numbers when they’re keyed into the pad by a user. But the other is to insert a device into the keypad which steals the information as it’s keyed in.’

  ‘And you think this sort of technology has been used here?’ asked WB.

  ‘Almost certainly. Just think: why would someone go to the trouble of breaking into a room, taking nothing, but leaving such obvious signs to tell the occupant they’ve been in there?’

  ‘To make them suspicious—’ began WB.

  ‘—and to make them go and check the safe,’ concluded Suzanne.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you were set up, Miss Jones. They knew if you were suspicious, you would check out the contents of the safe.’

  ‘Which I did straight away. Oh, how could I have been so stupid?’ exclaimed Suzanne.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Miss Jones,’ said the hotel manager, ‘it’s the natural reaction—which is exactly what they were relying on.’

  ‘So do we know which method they used?’ asked WB. Suzanne didn’t want to think about this. The possibility there was an illicit camera spying on her in her hotel room was just too much to contemplate. Fortesque Williams glanced around and then looked back at her with a smile, seeming to read her mind.

  ‘I’ll get my security people to have a look around,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think it was a camera. There’s a rough patch on the side of the keypad that suggests it’s been tampered with. I think your privacy is safe, Miss Jones.’

  ‘If not your valuables,’ growled WB.

  ‘Come back to my office and let’s get this reported. I don’t think we’ll be able to find them, but the security tapes might give us some idea.’

  ‘And I’d like another room, please,’ said Suzanne.

  ‘Of course; I’ll get it sorted straight away and get the maid to move your luggage.’

  ‘No!’ Suzanne’s voice came out more harshly than she’d intended and she swallowed hard as the men stared at her in surprise. ‘No, thank you, but I’ll pack and move my stuff myself. I’ve had enough of strangers going through my things lately.’

  As the three went back down to the manager’s office, they bumped into Chibesa and Charlie coming in through the revolving door into the foyer. They were dressed in running kit and seemed to have had a fair workout, judging by the sweat running down both faces and the dark patches under their armpits.

  By the time they’d been brought up to speed, the break-in reported and the security tapes had confirmed this was a professional job with no slip ups, it was close on midday. WB made arrangements to meet Fortesque Williams for dinner that evening and then the four friends went into the hotel restaurant for lunch. And only then, sitting out on the lawn under the trees, with no-one else within earshot, did Suzanne feel comfortable enough to admit to her friends that although her room had been broken into and her safe broken open, she had not, in fact, lost all her documents. As she hugged her bag to her chest once more, she confessed that after her concerns of the previous night, she had emptied everything out of the safe before she went to bed and transferred it all to her handbag. And even then, she couldn’t explain why she hadn’t felt safe enough to make this confession in the hotel manager’s office—or indeed in her room when the open safe was first discovered.

  25: ZAMBIA; DEC 2004

  ‘Mini-bar; can I service the mini-bar, madam?’

  The knock at the door of her hotel room came just as Suzanne was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. The team had returned from Nairobi that afternoon and they were having dinner together with Sara Matsebula before Suzanne and Charlie flew home for Christmas.

  She inspected her caller through the spyglass in the door. She couldn’t see the man’s face, as he was bent over a trolley full of miniature bottles, bags of nuts and tins of crisps, writing on a clipboard. She unlocked the door and headed back into the bathroom, calling over her shoulder:

  ‘Help yourself; could I have some extra bottles of water please?’

  When there was no reply, she poked her head out of the bathroom. ‘I said, could I have some...’ but the words died in her mouth as she realised the person standing just inside her room, in the process of closing and locking the door with his left hand, was no mini-bar waiter. In fact he wasn’t even a member of the hotel staff. Even before she saw his face, she knew who it was, from the strange angle at which he held his right arm. It was Kabwe Mazoka.

  She gasped and looked around wildly for her mobile, cursing herself under her breath when she realised she’d left it in her bag—on the other side of the room. And how could she have been so easily fooled? No wonder Charlie said she needed looking after. She remembered the house phone, on the desk just around the corner from the bathroom door and wondered if she could make it before Kabwe did. He must have seen her glance and read her mind. He put a hand out to her and spoke quietly.

  ‘No, Mrs Suzanne, please don’t. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, I have no wish to talk to you!’ she cried, ‘How dare you come here—after what you did!’ He was shaking his head, but she carried on, her fear and anger making her voice shrill and loud. ‘You had me kidnapped, you burnt down your own factory with all the women in it, you’ve killed God knows how many with your fake drugs.’

  ‘I didn’t know what they were going to do,’ he said. ‘I’d never have got involved if I’d known.’

  ‘Am I expected to believe that?’ Her voice was still unlike her normal one and she swallowed, trying to bring it back under control.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘please believe me! I know I’m a bad man—and I know I’m going to pay for that—but I never thought it would go this far.’ He took a step towards her, but she walked backwards, away from him, desperately scanning the room for a weapon she could use if he tried to attack her—as she assumed he would, sooner or later.

  Kabwe stopped following her and walked towards the window. They were on floor 15 and she hadn’t pulled the curtains yet. He stared out in silence at the lights of the city as the night took over from the day.

  ‘It wasn’t for me, you know,’ he said finally, turning with a sigh to face her once more. ‘It was for my mother. She was very ill—needed medicines, but I couldn’t afford them, not when father died. And all those women, they would have lost their jobs if we’d shut the factory down.’

  ‘Instead of which, they lost their lives,’ Suzanne said coldly.

  Kabwe nodded and echoed her words. ‘Instead of which, they lost their lives. Mrs Suzanne, I swear to you—’ But she had heard enough.

  ‘Kabwe, what are you doing here? Why have you come? If you’re planning to kill me, just get on with it.’ He was looking out of the window once more and she moved suddenly towards the door, thinking maybe she could get into the corridor and then scream for help. But he must hav
e seen her reflection moving in the glass; he ran to intercept her and grabbed her arm, holding her still.

  ‘Please, Mrs Suzanne, wait! I’m so sorry. I want to explain it all to you,’ he said, ‘tell you everything. Then you can explain it to the authorities.’ He released her arm and sat down on the sofa, wiping his hand across his eyes. ‘Please, sit and listen to me,’ he begged.

  Suzanne was far from convinced by this show of penitence and remorse. Nevertheless, if he was speaking the truth and if he did have information that would help them bring down Banda, she didn’t want to miss the opportunity. She walked across to the door, unlocked it, then turned and stood with her back pressed against it, as far away as possible from her unexpected visitor. Now she was a tiny step closer to safety.

  ‘Okay, Kabwe,’ she said, ‘I’m listening.’