Counterfeit!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  ‘Unless it could be used to give a message to anyone else who thinks they should talk to the authorities,’ Charlie chipped in.

  ‘Good point. We’ll talk to WB tomorrow and see if we can arrange for Sara to be moved somewhere safer. Francine, is there anything you can do to help, there?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so; I’ve got some good contacts down there in the British Embassy,’ their new partner replied with a grin.

  ‘Francine, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were enjoying all this cloak and dagger stuff,’ said Charlie, picking up the wine bottle and pouring them all another drink. ‘I’d better open another of these, sis; it looks like it could be a long night.’

  30: ENGLAND; MAR 2005

  ‘Well, I still don’t believe it! Chibesa’s not like that! He’s completely honest.’ Suzanne knew she was repeating herself, but she didn’t care. It was after midnight; Francine had finally taken a taxi back to her apartment in Dolphin Square, but the sisters were still talking through everything they’d learnt that evening. Charlie sat on the sofa, saying nothing and watching as her sister went back over the arguments again. ‘No, there’s got to be a logical explanation.’

  ‘Well, maybe there is, sis; but you have to admit it’s not looking good—’ But Suzanne wasn’t in the mood to listen to that sort of comment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I just don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, you could always ask him; see what he has to say for himself.’

  Suzanne threw herself down on the sofa next to her sister and exhaled hard. Then she sat up and nodded.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. That’s what we need to do. But it’s not going to work over the telephone. We’re going to need to talk to him, face to face.’

  ‘Well, that should be easy,’ said Charlie, ‘we’ll just jump on the next plane and hightail it out to Zambia, shall we? I can’t see Sir Frederick having a problem with that.’

  ‘No, of course it’s not going to be easy, but we need to think of something—and pretty damn quick, too.’

  But when the solution to their problem arrived a few days later, it was from the last direction they might have suspected.

  Suzanne was in her office, staring out of the window at the scene below her. It was late afternoon and the sun was starting to set. Looking down at the Thames, she watched barges and the occasional charter vessel meander along the river, sluggishly nosing through lazily lapping water turned pale gold in the setting sun. The trees along the embankment were still bare, but if she peered carefully, she could just make out buds starting to appear. Soon, they would be heavy with thick green foliage; blossom peeping shyly from behind leaves in the chestnut trees. She realised with a start that winter was over and spring was advancing. Then raising her eyes to the iconic building across the bridge from the hospital, she mused on the many people, famous faces and less well known ones, sheltering behind the ornate façade. She wondered if Francine was sitting across the river from her right now and, if so, whether she was still brooding on the whole Ernest/Chibesa episode. Last time they’d spoken, she had seemed rather depressed about the whole thing. As well she might, Suzanne thought. She’s supposed to be a smart, educated woman, yet she fell for the oldest trick in the book. She sighed. They really did need to find some way of getting to talk to Chibesa. There were just too many unanswered questions.

  It might have been fate that made the telephone ring just then—or it might have been pure coincidence. As a scientist, Suzanne didn’t really believe in fate; but as a realist, she knew that apparent coincidences very rarely were such.

  ‘Suzanne Jones speaking.’

  ‘Mrs Suzanne, it’s Mukooyo here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Mukooyo, Walter Mukooyo—from Kenya.’ The voice sounded irritable, as though he was not used to repeating himself. Suzanne gave a start, and then stood up, as though the Minister was in the room or they were on a video phone.

  ‘Minister, good afternoon. How lovely to hear your voice.’

  ‘Hmm, I doubt that somehow, Mrs Suzanne.’ There was now a hint of laughter in the voice and Suzanne felt herself blushing as she remembered the less than friendly atmosphere the first time they’d met, back in Swaziland. ‘I believe you think me unhelpful and complacent.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Minister,’ she replied, feeling her face burning even more. ‘Besides, I’ve learnt a lot in the short time I’ve been on this project.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘And I never had the opportunity to thank you for loaning us your table at the Game Park restaurant when we were in Nairobi. It was a most entertaining evening.’ Looking back, it was more than that, but she didn’t think the Minister would be interested in hearing about the burglary in her hotel room. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘I was hoping you could do me a favour, Mrs Suzanne. Do you have anything to do with the guest list for next month’s London shindig?’

  ‘Which shindig? Oh, you mean the International Health Forum quarterly review meeting?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Well, that’s mainly organised out of Sir Frederick’s office. But the counterfeiting project is a major element of the upcoming meeting, so I’m having some input this time around.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ Suzanne could almost see Mukooyo rubbing his hands together. ‘Mrs Suzanne, could you get me on the list?’ Suzanne was surprised by the request—and immediately suspicious. The Minister hadn’t been too impressed with her project, so she didn’t believe he would be willing to come all the way to London just to go to another meeting about it. What could be bringing him here? But before she had time to frame a diplomatic question, the answer came unprompted. ‘I know Sir Frederick will be busy hosting all the delegates, but hopefully he’ll have time to come to the world rifle championships with me. They’re being held in the UK the week after the IHF meeting.’

  So that was it; a sporting competition. Had the man no shame? She wished it was as easy for her to move people around the world when she needed to. And just like that, the solution to the Chibesa problem presented itself. She planted a smile on her face.

  ‘Why, yes, Minister; I’m sure that could be arranged,’ she said. ‘But there is one tiny thing I’d like to ask you to do for me—call it payment in kind if you like.’

  There was a pause on the line, and Suzanne wondered if she had pushed him too far; but then a bark of laughter burst across the airwaves.

  ‘Go on then, Mrs Suzanne; name your price!’

  It was the first time Chibesa had been to London and he gazed out of the taxi window with a look of pure glee on his face as they drove past Buckingham Palace and down The Mall. If he was surprised that The Honourable Walter Mukooyo, Minister of Health in the Kenyan government, had requested the company of a logistics expert from Lusaka on the trip to London, rather than one of his own minions from Nairobi, he didn’t say anything. From the day Suzanne had emailed him to warn him of the Minister’s ‘suggestion’, he had been nothing but enthusiastic and helpful in preparing for the trip.

  Despite Francine’s revelations and their suspicions, Suzanne had been genuinely pleased to see her erstwhile colleague when he walked out into the arrivals hall of Heathrow’s Terminal 3. They had gone through a lot together in the past six months and she was still finding it very difficult to believe he was mixed up with Kabwe Mazoka and Banda. The women had arranged a little surprise for the next evening, which would hopefully shock the truth out of him; but for now she was just happy to be sharing a taxi with this smart young man once more. They had arranged for him to fly in to London a couple of days before the Minister, along with the rest of the delegates, was due to arrive.

  ‘There are a few last minute arrangements to be worked on,’ she’d said on the phone when he got in touch to confirm his itinerary, ‘and it will also give us a chance to get up to date on the counterfeiting action plan.’ He agreed without question and she’d felt guilty about the trick they
were going to play on him.

  ‘Come on! Given what happened to Francine, I don’t think there’s anything to feel guilty about,’ said Charlie when she heard of Suzanne’s qualms. Francine had not said anything at all, although she looked a little uncomfortable every time the upcoming trip was mentioned.

  Now, as the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, Chibesa turned and smiled at Suzanne. ‘Makes a change, doesn’t it?’ he asked. ‘For you to be delivering me to a hotel, rather than the other way around.’

  ‘It certainly does, Chibesa.’ She watched as the porter took charge of the bags and ushered the guest into the reception area. ‘Right, I’m going to leave you to get some sleep; I’ll pick you up in the morning at eight-thirty,’ she said. As she walked away from the hotel and towards Vauxhall Bridge and home, she wondered if her friend would still be smiling at her this time tomorrow—or indeed if they would still be thinking of each other as friends at all.

  31: ENGLAND; APR 2005

  The three women had decided, after a lot of deliberation, to hold their confrontation meeting at Suzanne’s flat.

  ‘Is that wise?’ Francine had asked. ‘Suppose he turns violent?’

  ‘Have you ever known Chibesa to be violent?’ Charlie asked Suzanne. When her sister shook her head, she turned to Francine. ‘And, Francine, did Ernest ever show any violent tendencies when he was with you?’

  ‘Never; he was always gentle and considerate. At least, he seemed to be.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he’s likely to turn into a violent monster overnight, do you?’ She grinned at the other two. ‘And besides, I would think the three of us are well able to deal with one slim young man, are we not?’

  So the next evening after work, Suzanne and Chibesa strolled along the embankment together in the twilight. Suzanne had found the day increasingly stressful as the time approached for them to tackle Chibesa and maybe find out that he had been working for the other side all along. Chibesa didn’t seem to have noticed a problem, although he was quiet now. He yawned frequently and when Suzanne asked, he admitted he had not been able to sleep well in the hotel the previous night.

  Charlie was waiting for them when they arrived. She seemed genuinely pleased to see Chibesa once more and Suzanne wondered if she was acting too. She had been more willing than the other two to accept that Chibesa might be ‘dirty’, but that didn’t show in her grin or the hug she gave him. She seemed perfectly relaxed as she poured him a beer and steered him towards the sofa.

  ‘We’ll have a drink and a chat to start with; then we’re going to ring down for some takeaway, if that’s okay,’ said Suzanne. ‘I know you grew up with Indian food and it would be good to get your opinion on our favourite local place.’ Her mouth felt dry and she found she was having difficulty getting her words out. She wasn’t sure whether it was a sense of relief or a sense of impending disaster that hit her when the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Charlie, darting out of the room and pulling the door to before Suzanne could open her mouth. Maybe her sister was more nervous than she looked, after all.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, but was probably only a few seconds in reality, the door to the lounge swung open and a short blonde woman, in business suit and high heels, walked in.

  ‘Good evening, Ernest,’ said Francine.

  Chibesa jumped up, catching the coffee table with his foot as he did so. There was a crash as the table turned over, tipping his beer all over the pale green rug in front of the fireplace. No-one else seemed to notice and Suzanne knew it was the least of her worries just now.

  ‘Francine, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I live here! This is my city; my job is here—no thanks to you. Why wouldn’t I be here?’

  ‘But why here, in this flat?’

  ‘These are my friends!’ And as the words echoed around the room, Suzanne realised how true they were. Their early life might have been fraught with conflict and rivalry, but that was all a long time ago. And the issues they’d all been facing for the past few weeks had certainly brought them together.

  ‘Well, it’s a surprise, but a really nice one,’ said Chibesa. ‘I’ve been watching your career with interest.’ There was a gasp, although Suzanne wasn’t sure whether it came from Charlie or Francine. But she was sure which one of them took the next step. There was a blur as Francine covered the distance between herself and Chibesa, her arm rising through the air as she travelled. The crack as her hand contacted with his cheek was shockingly loud and seemed to ricochet around the small room.

  ‘You bastard; you fucking bastard,’ she spat through gritted teeth, before turning on her heel and striding out of the room. There was a bang as the front door closed.

  Chibesa sank back onto the sofa, rubbing his cheek and blinking his eyes which shone brightly with unshed tears.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked. Suzanne wondered how she should answer this question. Either he genuinely didn’t know—or he was a very good actor. But Charlie seemed to have no such doubts.

  ‘Oh nothing very much,’ she said, the sarcasm dripping off her tongue. ‘I guess the Parliamentary Undersecretary for the Department of International Development doesn’t appreciate being deceived, seduced and blackmailed, that’s all. Funny that; you’d think she’d have more of a sense of humour, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Who deceived her? And who’s blackmailing her?’

  ‘So you are happy to accept that you seduced her?’

  ‘Well, I seem to remember it was a mutual agreement, based on the attraction between two consenting adults, but I guess some people might describe it as seduction, yes.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of bewilderment and almost supplication. ‘But I really don’t know why she’s so upset. We agreed it was a one-off and we said goodbye amicably.’

  Suzanne thought back to her week with Nathan and realised there were similarities in the two situations. She would think about that later. Now, she needed to find out exactly what Chibesa knew.

  ‘Okay, Chibesa,’ she said, sitting down on the sofa next to him. ‘Why don’t you go back to the beginning and tell us what happened when you met Francine in Lusaka. And then we’ll fill you in on the details of why she’s so upset.’

  ‘So, how much has she told you?’

  ‘Just assume we know nothing,’ Charlie said, plonking herself down on one of the dining room chairs and folding her arms. ‘Start from the beginning and tell us everything, even the little details you might think are irrelevant.’

  It was back in 1997, my last year at a student. I was taking Economics and Business Studies at the University of Zambia, in Lusaka. There was a big conference being held on campus during the autumn holidays; a Commonwealth Conference on International Aid. People were coming in from all over the world. And a call went out for volunteers to help with the organisation and hosting. It was a great opportunity, and we all jumped at it. I was given the job of welcoming delegates, handing out their documentation packs, that sort of thing.

  And it was on the afternoon before the main event started that I first saw Francine. She strode into the foyer where the tables were set up, like a galleon in full sail! I thought she was magnificent! So smart! So self-assured! So strong! And not like the skinny models we see on television and in the magazines. This was one European who was comfortable being more ‘traditionally built’ as we call it in Africa.

  Of course, she didn’t notice me. Why should she? I was just one of the youths in T-shirts and baseball caps, handing out delegate packs and name badges. She went to the table next to mine, so I heard her give her name, take the pack, smile and turn to go. But that was enough. In just those few seconds, I knew I wanted to get to know Francine Matheson—but at the same time, I knew it was impossible.

  But although Francine failed to notice me—and my interest in her—someone else was watching—and decided to help me out.

  ‘Would you like to get to know her?’ asked a voice in my ear. I turned to see one
of the other members of the British Delegation watching me with a quizzical look. ‘Our Francine; would you like an introduction?’

  ‘I certainly would, but it’s not going to happen. We’re under strict instructions not to engage the delegates in conversation. We’re here as hosts, available when required, but otherwise invisible,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘But how about if we were to convert you into a delegate for the next few days? You’re a student, aren’t you? What are you studying?’

  ‘Economics and Business Studies.’

  ‘Well then, wouldn’t a seat in the auditorium be better for your career than sitting behind a desk out here?’ He gave a sly smile. ‘And it would probably bring you closer to the lovely Francine at the same time.’

  Well, I wasn’t going to argue with an opportunity like that, now was I? My new friend introduced me to Kabwe Mazoka. He was attending the conference on behalf of the Zambian Pharmaceutical Society and was supposed to be bringing his production manager with him, but he’d come down with a dose of malaria and had pulled out. So for the next week, I became Ernest Wishaw from Ndola, attending my first conference with my boss.

  And it was a fascinating occasion. I heard all sorts of prominent people talk about the importance of aid: how it’s raised; how it’s spent; how it’s monitored. It was certainly good material for my course. Some of my essay results after that week were truly impressive.

  But more importantly, I was able to get close to Francine—and she actually noticed me and seemed to enjoy my company. She’d only just been elected to Parliament earlier that year and, as an unknown backbencher, seemed a little distant from the rest of the British delegation, although people who heard her comments, and the occasional question she asked during plenary sessions, were saying she had a sharp mind and would go far.