‘He’s right, Charlie,’ she said. ‘We only discussed that aspect when we were alone. There’s no way Chibesa could have known about our suspicions.’ She stared at the young African man, searching for any hint of deception in his eyes. Then she stood up and walked over to pat his shoulder.
‘Okay, Chibesa, I believe you.’ She looked around at her sister and their old school friend. ‘What about you two?’
There was a long silence and she was beginning to think the problem was not going to be resolved, but finally Charlie smiled and nodded her head.
‘If you trust him, that’s good enough for me, sis,’ and, then pointing at Chibesa she went on, ‘but we need to be sure you’re completely open with us in future. Is that clear?’
Chibesa didn’t say anything, but he nodded his head wordlessly and Suzanne thought she saw the hint of a tear in his eye. Francine sighed and shook her head.
‘I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m going to reserve judgement for the moment. There’s a lot to take in—and frankly, it all sounds a little far-fetched to me.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Suzanne. ‘I’m going to vouch for Chibesa, so if anything goes wrong, you’ll be able to blame me, won’t you?’
‘Hmm, not sure that’s much of a consolation, but I guess it will have to do for the time being,’ was the politician’s reply. ‘Right, are you ready to go, Chibesa?’
‘You’re still happy to give me a lift?’ he asked ‘You trust me that much.’
‘You haven’t seen the size of her driver,’ said Charlie with a grin.
‘Well before we leave, there is one other thing,’ he said. ‘Ever since you told me about Francine being blackmailed, I’ve been trying to work out how it happened.’
‘But that’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Francine snapped. ‘Someone set me up. There was a camera hidden somewhere in the room. From the angle of the photos, it looked like it could have been in the wardrobe.’
‘Yes, but why you? There were a couple of hundred delegates staying at the hotel. You weren’t the most senior person attending. Why did they choose you?’
‘And how did they know you would be providing them with anything to film anyway?’ said Charlie.
Chibesa started counting things off on his fingers: ‘If I hadn’t been given the opportunity to attend the conference; if you and I hadn’t got on so well; if I hadn’t met my benefactor on the last evening of the conference and agreed to have supper with him; if I hadn’t followed his suggestion and knocked on your door; if you’d been out—or hadn’t been willing to let me in—there would have been nothing to film.’
‘So either the cameras were set up in other rooms as well, just in case...,’ said Suzanne.
‘...or someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure everything went to plan,’ finished Francine. Chibesa nodded.
‘And that’s why I think it’s important I tell you a little more about my benefactor—the man who seems to have engineered all of these situations. He’s someone else I’ve kept track of over the past few years. He’s doing a different job today and he has a fancy title attached to his name. I’m sorry to have to tell you, ladies, but the guy who set me up with Francine is Sir Frederick Michaels, Director General of the IHF. When I knew him, everyone just called him Fred. He was a senior civil servant, working in the Department of Health and Social Security. He seemed to know Africa pretty well and was confident in his dealings with everyone, at whatever level. We all looked up to him—but it’s beginning to look as though he was playing us all along, isn’t it?’
Suzanne and Charlie looked at each other in stunned silence. Suzanne found it impossible to believe her boss could be implicated in any way in Banda’s schemes.
The silence was split suddenly—and shockingly—by laughter. Francine Matheson sat with tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks and shaking her head. ‘Oh Chibesa, I’ve just remembered why I liked you so much. You were always making people laugh with your outrageous stories. But even for you, this one’s a bit over the top.’ She stood, smoothed down her skirt and picked up her bag and coat. ‘Okay, ladies, I think we’ve had enough trauma for tonight. I’ve got an early meeting in the morning, so I’m going to take Chibesa back to his hotel and then head straight to Dolphin Square. We’ll talk about this again tomorrow evening.’ And as she swept out of the flat, followed by a rather crestfallen-looking Chibesa, she was still chuckling to herself.
33: ENGLAND; APR 2005
Suzanne couldn’t pinpoint when the three women started to take seriously Chibesa’s comments about her boss. It might have been when she talked about how he’d tried to warn her off getting involved with Sara Matsebula after her first IHF presentation. Or maybe it was Francine’s comment about him being the one who introduced her to Mladov during the Ukrainian visit. Or it might even have been when Charlie made a throwaway remark about the sort of lifestyle he could expect once his much-heralded retirement arrived later that month. But suddenly all three of them seemed to be talking about Sir Frederick Michaels—and the more they talked, the more their suspicions grew.
They went back through their notes, looked at them from a different angle—and all at once, everything fell into place. The one common factor in all the links of the chain was the soon-to-be-retired Director of IHF.
‘But this is ridiculous,’ said Suzanne. ‘The man’s been knighted; he was a respected civil servant before he took on the IHF role. He’s met the Queen, for goodness sake!’
‘So did Antony Blunt,’ said Francine dryly. ‘I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I think it all makes sense.’
‘And someone’s obviously tried to frame Francine,’ Charlie chipped in, head bent over her laptop and fingers flying across the keyboard. ‘And I’ll tell you something really strange.’ The other two looked askance at her until she glanced up with a puzzled face. ‘He seems to have been born in his mid-twenties!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Francine.
‘There’s huge amounts of stuff on here about his career, his marriage, even a bit about him winning a medal for shooting while he was a mature student at university,’ Suzanne’s mind flew back to his comments about shooting with Walter Mukooyo, ‘but nothing before the age of twenty-seven.’
‘But doesn’t that just mean it’s pre-internet days?’ asked Suzanne.
‘Not really; if you look up other people with his sort of profile, there’s always something about childhood, schools attended and the like.’
‘Maybe he was brought up abroad?’ suggested Francine.
‘Possibly, but I still think it’s suspicious. I’ll keep searching,’ said Charlie.
The women spent the next few evenings rehashing the same ground, desperately searching for something that would confirm their suspicions—or lay them to rest for good. Although Suzanne knew if that happened, they’d be back to square one and yet more children could die.
At the beginning of the following week, Suzanne’s mobile rang while she was sitting at her desk waiting for her laptop to power up. It was Francine, apologising for phoning so early.
‘The Prime Minister’s throwing a quiet little dinner party for Sir Frederick next Wednesday—and I’ve been invited. Are you going?’
‘No, not to that one; I don’t think anyone from IHF’s been invited. We’re all going to the general bash the day before, but I understand this one’s just for very special guests. It’s being hosted by the PM himself, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right; I hoped you’d be there too. Looks like I’m going to have to do this alone.’ Suzanne thought she detected a note of excitement in Francine’s voice and that worried her.
‘Do what alone?’
‘Why, tackle him, of course. Accuse him right out and see what he says.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a very sensible approach, Francine,’ cautioned Suzanne.
‘No, it doesn’t, does it?’ came the amused reply. ‘A bit like bursting into my office and accusing me of financing Banda.’ Suzanne felt herself bl
ushing.
‘Fair point.’
‘Besides, what’s he going to do? It’s at Number 10 for Pete’s sake. The place will be bristling with security men. The guest of honour’s not going to risk losing his comfortable retirement at the last minute, now is he?’
It wasn’t the first time Francine had gone to the Prime Minister’s residence in Downing Street. Once before she’d walked along the pavement under the eyes of the press, to hear what position she was being offered in the new government. Then she’d made the short journey from Westminster on foot. Now she was driven in her official car. And her Armani dress and elegant accessories were a little different from the everyday work suit she’d been wearing last time. But once again she had butterflies racing around inside her stomach and she wondered if she was going to be sick. She took a deep breath before stepping out of the car; smiling at the policeman on duty, she walked through one of the most famous doors in the world where the evening’s host and the guest of honour were waiting to greet her.
Francine wanted to judge her approach carefully. Too early in the evening and Sir Frederick would probably find it easy to evade her questions. She knew he was adept at avoiding the issue if he needed to—it took one to know one, as her mother used to say. On the other hand, if she left it until after he’d had too much to drink, his reaction could be unpredictable.
Her opportunity came at the end of the fish course. An aide came in and whispered discreetly in Sir Frederick’s ear. He nodded, dropped his napkin on the table, excused himself to the Prime Minister, and followed the aide out of the room. As the plates were collected and white wine glasses replaced with larger vessels for the Bordeaux accompanying the main course, Francine murmured apologies to her neighbour, the deputy leader of the opposition party, and slipped out of the room herself. She could see her target sitting in a small alcove off the main hall, talking earnestly into the telephone. Francine went into the ladies restroom, counted to one hundred and then walked out again. Sir Frederick was just completing his call.
‘I’m willing to bet you won’t miss that side of the job, Sir Frederick,’ she said, making the man jump as she crept up behind him on the tips of her Jimmy Choos. ‘Surely not a work emergency at this time of night?’
‘No, no,’ he said with a quick smile. ‘Just a query regarding my travel plans.’ Francine raised an eyebrow.
‘It seems very late for a travel agent to still be at their desk,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe it was one of your pals in Zambia, or Ukraine maybe. How is Mr Mladov these days?’
‘Mladov, Mladov? Do I know…oh, of course, he’s the guy from the Ukrainian delegation, isn’t he? Why would he be phoning me?’ Give him his due, thought Francine, this man is smooth. ‘Although I seem to remember he was very taken with you. Kept insisting on a personal introduction.’
‘Well, there was a reason for that, wasn’t there, Sir Frederick?’ said Francine through gritted teeth. ‘Did you have a good laugh about the pictures before he came to see me?’
‘Pictures, my dear? What pictures?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He pointed back towards the dining room. ‘Shall we rejoin our host?’
Francine marched back to her place, fuming that she had failed to get anywhere in her goading of Sir Frederick. She sat and glared at him for the next few minutes before manners, good breeding and pure common sense took over and she turned back to her neighbour, resuming their conversation from a few minutes ago.
Throughout the rest of the evening, she felt Sir Frederick’s eyes on her more than once; but each time she glanced across, he was busy talking to the Prime Minister or the senior member of the House of Lords who was sitting on the other side of him. Then just as coffee was being served, another opportunity presented itself. The Prime Minister cleared his throat, tapped on his glass with a spoon and smiled across at the guest of honour.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘Sir Frederick asked that this dinner be informal without any long speeches. Of course, I told him I don’t do short ones, but he insisted.’ Polite titters greeted this attempt at humour. ‘But I do want to mention one piece of good news that came across my desk this afternoon. I’ve been informed by the British Ambassador to Zambia that agreement was reached at yesterday’s COMESA meeting to mount a multinational campaign across Africa against counterfeiters.’ There was a murmur of pleasure around the table and a smattering of applause. The Prime Minister paused for the silence to return. ‘As you all know, Sir Frederick has spearheaded the campaign for the past eighteen months and so it is a fitting tribute to the work of him and his team that we have reached this point now. A lot of drugs will be much safer in Africa as a result.’
Francine stared at Sir Frederick meaningfully, as he acknowledged the applause of the room. When his eyes met hers, his smile slipped a little, before falling back into place.
‘Francine,’ the Prime Minister’s voice caught her unawares, ‘as the senior representative here from the Overseas Development department, is there anything you would like to add?’ She began to shake her head—then changed her mind; Suzanne or Charlie would not let a chance like this slip by, so she must take the opportunity presented.
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ she said, rising to her feet and glancing around the small table at the dozen or so faces looking up at her. ‘We’ve heard about the IHF campaign, and the breakthrough in the African government forum. But I want to remind you that this isn’t about major campaigns or parliamentary decisions; ultimately, it’s about people.’ She went on to tell the guests about Sara Matsebula and the loss of her sister; about Freedom’s sister and her colleagues who died in the fire at Mazokapharm; and about Kabwe whose conscience eventually got the better of him and led to him taking his own life. ‘We’ve got some of the culprits already—and we’re close to getting the people at the top of the tree. It will take time, but we’ll get there.’ She turned to the guest of honour with a smile. ‘I just want to assure Sir Frederick that his departure will not interfere with our endeavours and that his project is safe in our hands.’ In the ensuing applause, Francine continued watching Sir Frederick, who was staring at her without smiling, a dull red flush spreading across his face. She bowed ironically towards him and then turned to shake the Prime Minister’s hand and thank him for a most enjoyable evening.
‘Francine, do you have your car here?’ Sir Frederick’s voice cut across what she was saying to their host, and she turned towards him.
‘Yes, my driver’s waiting for my call.’
‘I wonder if I might beg a lift from you? My wife’s promised to pick me up, but she’s spent the evening with a friend over near Victoria and it would be easier for me to meet her there. I believe you live in the same direction, don’t you?’
‘Certainly, Sir Frederick, I’d be glad to,’ Francine said, unable to think of any way of refusing. Besides, she would be in a government car, driven by a government driver; the Prime Minister knew she was giving Sir Frederick a lift; and they would be driving a short distance across the city. What could possibly go wrong? Yet she couldn’t suppress a shudder of fear as he stood back to let her through the door, then followed her into the night.
The journey was uneventful; Sir Frederick could be good company and their conversation steered clear of any controversial topics. Then as they pulled up in front of the modern apartment block where the IHF boss was meeting his wife, he reached across and gripped her arm with fingers that did not for one minute feel like those of a desk-bound public servant.
‘You know, Francine, politics is a very dirty game in some countries, even here in the UK at times, You’ve been very clever, my dear, to reach your current position without a hint of scandal attaching itself to you. It would be a pity if that situation were to change. Do take care that you don’t leave yourself open to any risks.’
‘Oh, I think it’s too late for that,’ Francine said. ‘Tell me, Sir Frederick, why me? Why did you feel it necessary to set me up
in that way? I was a new MP, I wasn’t important; I might never have left the back benches for all you know.’
‘Oh, I think you’re being too modest,’ he said. ‘I never had any doubt about your ability. It was obvious from the start you would become a very useful member of the team.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, my dear; thank you for your company and for the lift. I doubt if we will meet again.’ And then he was gone. But the memory of his grip remained with Francine for the rest of the journey home.
34: ENGLAND; APR 2005
‘Sir Frederick, your wife’s on line two.’ Phoebe’s voice cut across his reverie and he gave a start. It had been a long week of farewells, at Downing Street, at Westminster and here in the IHF office. He was glad it was all coming to an end. The sun had gone behind the tower of Big Ben and lights were beginning to appear at some of the windows in the Palace of Westminster, just across the river. He wondered how long he’d been staring out of the window. ‘Sir Frederick? Do you want me to say you’re in a meeting?’ Phoebe sounded concerned, in that genteel manner that had moved her up from the admin office to the General Director’s office within a few weeks of IHF being established. He was going to miss her.
‘No thanks, Phoebe. I’ll take it,’ he said. As he stretched out to pick up the receiver, he looked up and smiled at her. ‘That will be all. You can head off now.’ As he pushed the button connecting him to his wife, he felt, as usual, the iron overcoat snap into place.
‘Frederick, where are you?’ were her opening words. He guessed this was a rhetorical question, since even the silly woman he’d been saddled with for so many years should have been able to work out his location, since she was calling him on his landline. ‘I thought you were coming home early today.’ He forced a smile onto his face, believing this would find its way through to his voice. He couldn’t afford to upset her now.
Counterfeit! Page 21
