Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 02

by Reapers

  Once clear of the area, the passenger powered up his Iridium phone and punched in a series of numbers.

  Pause.

  “Dmitri, here is Sergei. I must speak to the boss.” He waited until a second voice came on the line. “We have a problem with the little general it seems. He has reneged on his commitment to sell to you, and has consigned the goods to another group. He says they will pay more and in Euros.”

  Sergei listened for a moment. “I don’t know who the other party is. Not one of ours, I am thinking. What?”

  The plane reached its lowest cruising altitude and the pilot turned an inquiring eye to Sergei, who waved him off temporarily.

  “No, he had a platoon of his troops at his back or I would have. They pretty much surrounded us. Some of those militiamen couldn’t have been more than kids. Not a good age to issue a seventies-era Kalashnikov. They don’t seem to know what the safety is for either.”

  Sergei listened some more while wagging his hand at the pilot who, it seemed, wanted a destination.

  “Yes I reminded him of our deal to take the coltan, but as I said, he just laughed at me and hinted he was not committed to us if he could get a bigger price. I said the price does not change and he gave me one of those looks, you know, and said ‘Too bad for you. Tell M. Lenka it was not a matter of honneur parmi les voleurs.’ I didn’t ask him what that meant. They speak French or something up here.”

  The pilot, his impatience growing, wagged the plane’s wings and glared at Sergei.

  “So, he will travel back to the forest and his new mine tomorrow. What? Yes, very well. I will take care if it at this end.” He turned to the pilot and shouted. “Sudan. We are to pick up Tarq and drop him off at the little airfield where we sold the guns, you remember? Our little general is about to be replaced.”

  The plane banked and set a course north and slightly east. The pilot lit another cigarette, coughed, and settled back in his seat.

  ***

  Patriarche waited. There were no new movements from the men in the valley. He relaxed. The troubling thoughts passed. He retrieved his stick, the biggest he’d ever used, and swatted at a tree branch. A shower of leaves fell to the ground. He pawed through them. Several seemed sweeter to his taste, they were the lighter shaded ones. He looked up and saw that at the topmost branches, there seemed to be many more of these better tasting leaves, but they were out of reach. He threw the stick at the nearest of the unreachable branches, He missed and his stick sailed in a low arc away from him and hit one of the other gorillas in the head who, in turn, barked in pain. It looked at Patriarche’s stick, picked it up and threw it back at him nearly hitting him in the chest. He scowled and roared an admonition at this impudence, but did nothing else. They were not enemies.

  Patriarche tried another toss, this time with more success. The other ape, watching, tore a branch from a nearby tree and stripped it of its smaller branches and leaves. He glanced in Patriarche’s direction and threw his stick in the air as well. He was better at throwing, it seemed. Patriarche grunted his approval. By the end of the day most of the males and a few females had now mastered the stick, some better than others. It must have been the better tasting leaves.

  ***

  The negotiations in Somalia only required a few minutes. Tarq—no one knew his real name, only that he was an American and he’d been trained by one of their military services as a sniper—climbed aboard the aircraft with his sidekick and spotter, a woman whose Arabic name sounded like Condoleezza, but whom Tarq simply called Rice. They carried back packs with provisions for several days, a spotter’s scope, and the Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle he’d been issued by the organization. The pilot reached for his package of Marlboros. American cigarettes were a perquisite that came with his employment with Lenka. Before he could light one, however, Tarq slapped it from his hand. It rolled across the cockpit floor and dropped into a crack next to Sergei. No word was said. The two men glared at each other. The pilot returned the pack to his shirt pocket with a grunt.

  Sergei watched this exchange with amusement. Pilots were always so arrogant. He was pleased to see this one put in his place. No one dared to annoy Tarq. Men like him drifted at the edge of the darkness like the big cats, only they were infinitely more dangerous.

  “Tarq,” he said as the plane taxied into what little wind there was, “What is your real name?”

  Sergei didn’t expect an answer. He only wanted the man to know he’d seen and approved of the cigarette business.

  “Booth,” Tarq said. It would be the only words from him for the entire trip. Sergei could not tell if he told the truth or simply added another layer of anonymity to his already murky persona. As soon as the plane was airborne, Tarq sprawled on the floor among his equipment and slept. Rice, it seemed, knew neither Russian nor English and had nothing to say in any case. She stretched out in the rear of the plane on a pile of duffle bags that smelled suspiciously of marijuana. The four traveled toward Rwanda in silence.

  They landed in a spot close enough to the mining operation in the Congo for the sniper and his spotter to hike in and back out without trouble, but far enough from the general and his troops to not arouse their suspicions or signal their presence. They might be curious, of course. News of the plane would reach them soon enough. But they also knew that the men they dealt with were known to have interests across the breadth of central Africa. Tarq and Rice quickly disembarked. They agreed to a pickup the same five days hence. The two figures, back packs in place and the rifle sheathed, melted into the forest. Sergei circled his hand over his head signaling the pilot it was time to go. The plane’s engine picked up RPMs, taxied, and then flew east.

  The pilot lit up.

  Sergei called Cape Town with an update. He settled back in the left seat. An hour, hour and a half at most, Sergei thought, then home and a bottle of chilled vodka, some caviar, and Serafina…or perhaps her sister.

  He’d have to think about that.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Andrew Takeda found himself on the carpet. Not Sanderson’s as he’d supposed he might someday. After all, everyone knew his disappointment about being passed over for promotion and his less than graceful acquiescence. But today he stood in front of Superintendent Mwambe. Mwambe was his friend and coworker in efforts to seed the Chobe. Yet here he was and Mwambe did not look happy.

  “So, Takeda,” he said.

  Not a good start. Normally Mwambe would have called him by his Christian name, but not today, not Andrew, just Takeda.

  “We have a serious problem, it seems. Let me correct that, you have a serious problem. A problem which may hurt the effort of all of us, you see?”

  Andrew thought he did, but hoped he was wrong.

  “There is this murder in the park, which I assume you must have witnessed, and now the police outside of this jurisdiction are making inquires. It did not take much to discover the contents of the SUV. They have linked the murder to orgonite. It will be only a matter of time before they will find you and then me. I am not wanting to place myself in the middle of such an investigation because of your foolishness.”

  “I don’t know how this connects with me, Superintendent.” Andrew thought it best to use Mwambe’s title and play dumb.

  “When we met in the car park, I noticed that man Noga lingering at its edge. I have the strong impression that the two of you had been in conversation.”

  Andrew focused his attention on the floor. Then he stammered, “I was under the impression he was one of us.”

  “Us! That’s idiotic. Why would you think one of Botlhokwa’s henchmen would be interested in saving Africa? He is only interested in grabbing and running. He would sell the entire continent to the highest bidder and throw in his grandmother as the deal closer. What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. He met me in the street, said something about knowing the park and so on. I assumed—”

  “You assumed? Assumed what? There is a very dead Congolese in our
morgue and a whole shipment of orgonite in the American’s skip, which we dare not retrieve. So what could you possibly have assumed that would have produced such a catastrophe?”

  “As I said, that he was one of us. So when he asked what was happening, I said some very precious material would be passing into the park the next night. Meaning, of course the orgonite.”

  “You knew him from before, I think.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, I don’t know him—”

  “Do you take me for a fool? Botlhokwa has been moving in and out of that park for years and someone has enabled that. That someone, it seems, is you, Takeda. I overlooked it because I could see no harm in what transpired and I did not want my friend Pako to find himself in hot water. This Sanderson I do not care about. But here is the dilemma we find ourselves in.”

  “Dilemma?”

  “Be still. Yes, dilemma. The DIS has a man here. The DIS is worried about the border and the silliness going on in South Africa with the football matches. This incident will not go away. I cannot cover for you. They will find you, Andrew, and they will find Noga as well. You have very few choices. You might lay low and hope all this will go away, but—”

  “All this? What do you mean?”

  “Andrew, do not be stupid with me. You are beginning to sound like my nephew, Derek. The man was murdered in the park. You supplied information to a shady character about his presence. I must assume that Noga thought your idea of precious agreed with his and that it meant precious in the monetary sense. So he went to steal it, or he sold that information to someone else who did the stealing. I am betting on that story, by the way. Noga is Botlhokwa’s man, and he does not get his hands dirty if he can avoid it. It is his way. But either way, you are an accessory to murder, Andrew. Get that straight in your brain.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think you did or did not do. As I was saying, you can lay low and hope it goes away. But my guess is it won’t. Or you can come clean. Turn yourself in to me for arrest and examination. That will mean you will also give up Noga and he will not be pleased. There may be side consequences to that. I would say collateral damage. You should send your family away for a while. Your third choice, you can expect the people from Gabz to pick you up and then all three will come down on your head.”

  “Mwambe, we have been friends for many years. Your cousin is married to my aunt, surely—”

  “Three choices, Takeda. Family cannot save you this day. I will give you one hour to make up your mind. But in case you missed it, your career with the government is over.”

  “One hour only?”

  “One hour.”

  Mwambe glanced out the window and watched as Kgabo Modise parked his rental in front of the police station. He slammed the car door shut, opened and checked the contents of a folder in his hand, and marched through the front door. Mwambe had an uneasy feeling about that folder.

  It seemed Andrew Takeda would not have an hour after all.

  ***

  General le Grande, commander of the militia currently occupying the site of the coltan dig, seemed very proud of himself. He had rebuffed the Russian thug who thought he could push him around. These European gangsters, les bandes criminelles, they believed, like their colonialist predecessors, they could lord it over simple African folk. Now this group knew better. And if these other white men from the south who wished to buy the coltan thought they could fool him, they would soon learn their lesson as well.

  Le Grande carried a swagger stick fashioned from an infant gorilla femur. A bit of the donor’s fur had been woven into a strand and attached to its distal end which, when le généralissime flicked his wrist just so, would snap. If it happened to catch someone’s wrist in the process, it could raise an angry welt. His followers had learned to stay out of range.

  He stepped from his restored GAZ-67b four-by-four which had been newly painted an olive green, and had a fifty caliber machine gun mounted in the rear. It had seen better days a long time ago, but he was very proud of this truck, his voiture blindée, with his personal gold and blue flag attached to the right front bumper. He strode toward the growing pile of coltan and inspected it with a practiced eye. There would be many Euros here. Perhaps, he thought, if he could mix enough look-alike shale in with it he could double his profits. He did not know where he could find such fausse minéraux but he would ask around.

  He strolled over to the other side of the camp acknowledging his soldiers salutes with a touch of his beret with the swagger stick and a quick snap. He wished to inspect the gorilla parts. The meat to be sold as bush meat had already been carted away. The rest of the body parts lay in untidy piles sorted by type and presumed market. He was pleased and told his troops so. They grinned perfect-toothed smiles and shuffled their feet.

  “Où sont les gorilles maintenant?” he asked.

  The men pointed toward the forest and up the hillside. Up there, the gorillas are there.

  Le Grande pivoted, snapped his stick, and announced there would be a hunt which he would lead as soon as he returned from meeting with his staff at headquarters. In a day or two they would harvest this animal crop.

  “Ce que Dieu a semé, nous récolterons,” he said and smiled. What God has sown, we shall reap.

  The men cheered. Killing defenseless gorillas would be a welcome change from the killing of defenseless people. Les soldats did not harbor much in the way of guilt or remorse over either prospect. Months of pillage, rape, autocannibalism—the latest addition to the accretion of mindless brutality and violence that characterized their chosen avocation—had inured them to any such benevolent thoughts. They had exercised these despicable behaviors on rival tribesmen, passersby, innocent villagers who might have stood between them and their opponents, and others who were sometimes former neighbors and occasionally kinsmen.

  Gorillas, they believed, did not count. Although during the rare moments that might be thought of as reflective, they recognized the beasts bore an uncomfortable resemblance to themselves. But as they existed only as soulless animals, they need not be reckoned among life’s necessary elements. They wouldn’t admit to it, perhaps were not aware of it, but the primary difference between them and the gorillas was that the latter did not kill for either pleasure of profit. They were gentle vegetarians who must be pushed to extremes before they would show even a trace of aggression.

  Ten kilometers to the north, and moving through the bush at a killing pace, Tarq and Rice closed in on the camp. Like the soldiers, they had no compunctions against killing people either, but did when it came to lesser primates.

  Hunters of all sorts coursed through the forests.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Leo stepped out of his office and strolled to the bench he’d had his carpenters construct for him under a baobab tree. Like the Mowana Lodge to the east, Leo wanted a large baobab to serve as a signature for his hotel. Unlike that at the Mowana, which sat in the back portion of the hotel, Leo’s baobab would grace the entrance. He had the business cards and camera-ready graphics already at the studio. He’d been told the tree with its huge girth was hollow. He wondered if it would be possible to cut a doorway into it. A Dutch door and the tree could serve as the night security post. He would have a gate. It would be down after…ten, midnight? He’d ask around. The people in this country were so peculiar about disturbing wildlife. He didn’t know if trees counted.

  He should be content. But not now. Not with this Greshenko business. He lowered himself onto the bench with a grunt. Something he did more often lately. Age acquires some inevitable negatives, diet and nutritional good behavior notwithstanding. He needed some alone time to think how best to break it to Yuri that he’d contacted Kgabo Modise, the cop from Gaborone. His contact at the CIA had made it clear that from the viewpoint of the people in DC, if Leo were to call in the problem officially they would have no option but to detain Greshenko, seek to have his residence permit revoked, and possibly remand him into
the custody of the Russians. They suggested the locals might have a gentler solution. So, he’d made the call to Modise who said he’d be by as soon as he finished some business at police headquarters. An hour or two.

  He’d had the builders place the bench so that it faced the casino and he could sit and monitor progress made day to day. As he settled on the wooden slats, he wished he’d thought to bring a cushion. Age! He let his gaze wander over the project. It would be ready for Greshenko’s promised surge of guests. That should have cheered him. It didn’t. Leo exhaled, wished he’d taken better care of himself in the past so that he could still have his afternoon cocktail and cigar. That wasn’t asking too much. A movement to his right caused him to swing his gaze around to a pile of concrete blocks a few meters away. He squinted against the sun and realized that the monkey, he assumed the same one that had stolen the cell phone, had taken a position on the blocks and had something in its hand. Or did monkeys not have hands but paws? W. W. Jacobs wrote a story, The Monkey’s Paw. So, paw it is. He looked again. Clearly the beast had gotten a hold of something that did not belong on the concrete blocks. He stooped down and gathered a handful of debris and threw it at the monkey.

  “Hey, get out of here. Shoo.”

  The monkey dropped whatever it had been holding, bounded across the yard, and with a leap that was nothing short of spectacular, sailed into the trees. It turned and screamed at Leo who assumed he was being castigated with the simian equivalent of obscenities. It then made a gesture which confirmed his assumption.