Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 02

by Reapers

  Thirty seconds later, he heard the movements that apparently had attracted the old gorilla’s attention. These hunters were not very skillful. If the gorillas were to realize the danger they represented, they had ample opportunity to flee. But they lingered. Tarq settled into his shooting position and touched Rice’s shoulder. She lowered her body beside his. Only a matter of seconds now.

  The first man into the glade was not the general. Two more stepped clear. Tarq realized the gorillas had become unnaturally quiet. He risked a look up the hill where the group of apes had been. They had moved, not away from, but toward the men. Odd. Tarq turned his attention back to the glade. He heard Rice hiss. The general had stepped forward. He stood, Napoleon-like, in the center, his rifle slung loosely in the crook of his arm. Tarq settled the crosshairs on the general’s core. A head shot would be surer but riskier. At the same instant, the gorillas seemed to rise as one and advance on the men. The soldiers hesitated, not expecting this move. Some raised their rifles and took aim but the general seemed to wave them off. He could not make out the man’s words but an order had been given and the men hesitated. At that moment the unthinkable happened.

  The silverback had been carrying a large stick. He lifted his arm and threw it with considerable force toward the general. The other apes followed suit, apparently with no intentional aim at a target. They simply let fly and then rearmed with rocks and forest debris. The silverback’s stick caught the general on the temple. He dropped like a stone. Tarq could not see how badly he’d been hurt, only that he didn’t move once he fell. The apes moved closer now screaming and beating their chests, rocks and sticks flying. The soldiers, with their leader down, panicked and raced back down the mountainside. The silverback shuffled to the prostrate general and picked up his rifle. He held it by the barrel, as he had the stick earlier. He used it to smash the man’s head several times. It sounded to Tarq like the time he’d taken a baseball bat to a watermelon. The gorilla stared at the bloody end of the rifle, swung it around, and shattered it against a tree trunk. He dropped the pieces next to the man and he and the rest of his group retreated back up the mountain and out of sight.

  Tarq waited until he felt certain the apes had cleared the area. He quickstepped down the hill to the general. The man was very decidedly dead. He snapped a picture with his cell phone, grabbed the ID from the general’s pocket, and turned.

  “We’re out of here,” he said to Rice. They shed their ghillie suits and retraced their steps out of the area.

  Except for the long trek through the jungle, it might have been the easiest paycheck he’d ever earned.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Modise listened stone-faced to Leo Painter. He thought the attempt to sell intel to the Russians by a local gang of thugs verged on the fantastic. He knew about the Bratva, of course. Notices about it, its known activities and personnel, had been discussed at the Director’s briefings when the agenda reached global threats and Interpol intel. He had the file he’d been handed by the DG as well. He’d studied pictures of the major players and thought he could recognize many of them on sight. But, up until now, its known activities south of the Zambezi had been largely confined to South Africa. The possibility that it had spread its tentacles into Botswana and the Chobe was cause for serious concern. He would need to contact the Director General at once.

  “Are you sure of this, Mr. Painter?”

  “It is what Greshenko told me. I have no reason not to believe him. Before I asked him to come to the Chobe with me last year I had him vetted by a very reliable private investigator who told me that Greshenko used to run with those people. If he says the Russian mafyia is here and selling its services to Russian Intelligence, it would be silly for me not to believe him.”

  “Have you contacted your embassy, the United States authorities? They will want to know, certainly.”

  “I made some informal calls to some people I know in the State Department and elsewhere. They did not offer much in the way of relief for Greshenko. As I hear it, he’s as well off playing with the bad guys as with the good guys. I’m hoping you can do better by him.”

  “Yes, I see. The circumstances of his past are most unfortunate, I think. You know it does not make him the sort of person for whom a government like ours does favors.”

  Modise turned his gaze away and studied the men applying stucco to the walls of the hotel in front of him. He stood and began to pace. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and held it up to his ear. A confused look, followed by a sheepish smile, and he placed the book on a low wall nearby and fished out his cell phone.

  “Inspector, I would not leave that thing on the wall. If I were you.”

  Modise stopped pacing and looked at Leo. “There is a problem?”

  At that instant, the gray monkey made a lightning dash toward the wall, Modise’s notebook his destination.

  “Hey, get away from that,” Modise shouted and bent to retrieve a scrap of debris which he scaled at the monkey who, in turn, veered away and scurried up a nearby tree to await another larcenous opportunity.

  “That sucker does that all the time. We’ve lost tools, cell phones, and God only knows what else to that little bastard. Maybe your police can arrest him.”

  “If we arrested every monkey who steals we would have none in the trees to amuse your guests.”

  “I would not miss them, Inspector.”

  “Ah, but the tourists would, I believe.” He pocketed his notebook and turned his attention to his phone, his back to Leo who strained to catch a word or two or make out who the inspector had on the line. But as the talk was in Setswana, a language he had not yet mastered, he failed.

  The conversation, if you could call it that—Modise mostly listened—lasted nearly five full minutes. Leo scuffed his toe in the dirt and waited.

  “Mr. Painter, my superiors will require more time to consider how best to handle this situation. I reminded them of the threats made to your Mr. Greshenko and the likelihood his controllers will be expecting results soon.”

  “More than that. I hope you also told him that if Greshenko is taken out of the picture, it means someone else will be sent in his place and we will not know who that person will be. Greshenko is your proverbial ‘bird in the hand.’”

  “Bird? Yes, I suggested we would be wise to keep the operation in your friend’s hands rather than taking a risk that a stranger might be sent in his place. Is that what you meant?”

  “Yes, that sort of bird, you understand correctly.”

  “The DG suggests you proceed but only in part. What you do in your hotel is your business, he says. Placing cameras and microphones in the units is highly suspicious behavior, perhaps unethical even, but only becomes a problem when used in a covert or illegal manner and only then depending for what purpose, you see?”

  “Not really. Are you saying we should go ahead and install them?”

  “In your buildings, yes, but in yours only. If Greshenko’s controllers get word of work in progress, it will hold them at bay for a while. Long enough for us to decide what to do next.”

  “I’m being told to bug and setup secret surveillance of guests in my hotel rooms?”

  “Bugging, surveillance? Um…I think you did not hear me correctly, sir. I am sure I distinctly said the government would have no difficulty with your attempt to provide a cutting edge fire warning system in your rooms. Of course you understand the equipment must key to switch on only when your smoke detectors activate.”

  “My smoke detectors activate? Oh, fire warnings, right. I’m not as quick as I used to be, Inspector. Sorry about that. Yes, indeed, we are very proud of our system for helping guests safely from their rooms in case of fire. Smoke detectors do their thing and the system jumps to attention. Indeed, we call it the Fuggo system.”

  Modise raised his eyebrows. “Fuggo?”

  “F. G. H. O.—Fire, Get the Hell Out.”

  “Very clever. I must remember that. Well, pu
t your man to installing the Fuggo. We will of course, wish to have a close monitor on your system as well. Perhaps we could build in a delay of some sort. You know how that is, time to assess the actions before sending them along. We are not sure.”

  “And the rest of the job? What does Greshenko tell the bozos about installing things in the Mowana Lodge?”

  “We will have an answer for that in a day or two.”

  “And what happens to Greshenko when this gets out?”

  “If it gets out you mean.”

  “I think I mean, when. If he does this job, he will be in their pocket forever. I don’t want that to happen. But if he gets caught, does time, or whatever, they’ll have no more use for him.”

  “And they may eliminate him as he is the link to them. But if he doesn’t and he stays in their service, you could say, we would have use for him.”

  “You’d make him a double? Modise, you might as well put a bullet in his head right now.”

  “You are too dramatic, I think.”

  “How well do you know this Bratva?”

  “Well enough.”

  “I think not.”

  “Still, for the moment, he should proceed as we have discussed.”

  “I hate it when big institutions decide the sacrifice of a life is justifiable if it serves the greater good, especially when it’s someone else’s life.”

  “Stay with us, Mr. Painter, we do not wish any harm to fall on your friend.”

  “Words, Modise, words. Governments trade in them. But I don’t suppose we have any better options, do we?”

  “No.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The two men Modise had referred to as “Boers” had their SUV headed toward the park. Their orders were to ferret out the men who’d short-circuited Lenka’s purchase of the Congolese coltan. A pickup truck with construction company markings on its door passed them headed in the opposite direction.

  “That’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Botlhokwa’s man that took our money and sent us into the park for nothing.”

  “Where?”

  “He just drove past us in that bakkie. Turn around and follow him.”

  “We’re supposed to be looking for the men who took the big man’s coltan.”

  “Never mind that now. I want that kaffir. Turn around”

  The driver twisted the wheel over hard and cut across the road. As it happens, heavy traffic is a relative rarity in Kasane, and except for a police car approaching from the west, there was none now. The SUV’s tires left a fresh patch of rubber on the macadam as it wheeled around to follow the truck carrying Noga. The police car braked and then picked up its pace and trailed them in turn. The constable who happened to be driving could not be sure, he’d had at best only a quick a glance, but thought the men in the car might be the two men Superintendent Mwambe had mentioned at roll call the day before. They were wanted for questioning in the park murder. The constable leaned toward the microphone on his collar and spoke. Apparently to call in his position and what he’d guessed were the possibilities with respect to the passengers in the SUV. After some minutes, devoted to what may have been an argument, the constable shook his head and keyed off.

  The man in the SUV’s passenger seat strained forward. “Where is he headed?”

  “You’re asking me? Who knows? We’ll just have to follow and when we find the right pull-off, we stop him and have a conversation.”

  The second man grinned and retrieved his rifle from the behind the seat and slid open its breech.

  The road swung south and east. The truck headed away from Kazungula toward Nata some three hundred kilometers away. Enormous commercial rigs, diesel engines chuffing noisily, and their trailers lined the west side of the road waiting for their turn to cross the river into Zambia on the ferry.

  “As soon as we clear these monsters, pull him over.”

  “There is a car behind us. It started following us in Kasane. I think it’s the police.”

  “Scheiss, what do we do now?”

  “I’ll pass the truck. Let that bird see us. I’ll give him a sign to pull up after the police get tired of following us.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  ‘We’ll pull over and take care of the copper. Then we’ll see to the truck.”

  “I am not liking this.”

  ***

  Constable Kgobela had a particular and personal interest in chasing the SUV with the two men. He’d suffered through Mwambe’s impatience at the crime scene in the park, his stubborn insistence that the dead man had committed suicide in spite of the obvious evidence to the contrary and the game ranger’s suggestions, and now this reversal with neither explanation nor clarity. Something had happened after the DIS man from Gaborone showed up for sure. Either way, Kgobela would like very much to arrest these two. If suspicion of murder were not adequate, certainly he had reason enough to pull them over for their irresponsible driving. He pulled a bit closer to the SUV as it swung south on the Nata road.

  His radio crackled.

  “Kgobela, is that you? Are you there?’

  “Derek, we have been through this before, you must learn correct procedure. That is not how you are to contact someone on the radio.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, it is complicated, but I am learning, I think. Yes, well…anyway, this is urgent. Superintendent Mwambe says you are to pull back and wait for backup.”

  “That means he is coming to make the arrest himself?”

  “I cannot say. Probably. He has some difficulties with headquarters, I think and needs to show…well, you know how he is. He has left in his car and will meet up with you soon.”

  “But he does not know where I am.”

  “Oh, yes, as to that, he is on the alternate radio frequency. You are to contact him there and give him your location. Under no circumstances, he said, are you to stop these men by yourself.”

  “It is too late for that. They are pulling off the road even now. They have a bakkie, I think one of Botlhokwa’s, that they have been tailing. I am stopping now. Tell your uncle, the superintendent, I am four kilometers south on the road to Nata on the east side, if that helps.”

  Kgobela signed off and eased his car behind the SUV. The men had already dismounted and were approaching the pickup. One of the men pivoted and watched the police car arrive and then grinned. Kgobela thought that seemed odd under the circumstances. He braked and reached for his baton. He hoped there wouldn’t be any use for it but that grin suggested there might be trouble. Too late, Kgobela saw the rifle at the grinning man’s side.

  ***

  By the time Superintendent Mwambe had deciphered his nephew Derek’s messages and tried and failed to contact Kgobela himself, nearly twenty minutes had elapsed before he pulled up behind the police car. A bit farther along, a pickup truck, the one apparently belonging to Botlhokwa, sat with its motor idling and seemingly empty. A uniformed body lay face down between the two vehicles. Nothing else stirred. Mwambe stayed in his car waiting. A large trailer truck roared north, its air wash rocked the car. Mwambe had drawn a pistol from the gun locker before he’d left. At the time he didn’t know why. Instinct, he’d assumed. Now he realized what the spirits had been trying to tell him.

  “Derek, call for backup immediately. I want them armed. Also, I will need a forensic team here. Do this right now.”

  The car jumped again as another truck rocketed by. Mwambe eased open his door, and being careful to stay behind its protecting steel, stepped out onto the verge. He slipped the pistol into his hand and peered over the window sill. Still, nothing stirred. He swung his gaze toward the bush. No one but a fool would venture too deeply into it. Most wild animals did not venture so close to the road, but you could never count on that. Elephants might decide to cross at any point. They claimed the right of way and were granted it.

  Satisfied he was alone; he stepped out from behind the car door and walked to the body. Constable Kgobela lay in the dust. He’d
obviously been shot. The wounds on his back indicated the bullets had passed clean through. With no walls, trees or other obstacles to capture them, there would be none for ballistics to analyze. Too bad about that. He stepped carefully around the body and approached the other vehicle. It had a passenger after all, crumpled sideways across the seat. He too, had been shot at close range by a quite powerful weapon. The chances for ballistics test improved in the shooting within a closed space.

  There was nothing more Mwambe could do but wait for his people to arrive. Modise would have a field day with this. He gritted his teeth at the thought.

  Two bodies.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Noga stared down at the business end of the rifle barrel. He had no illusions whether the man brandishing it would pull the trigger if so inclined. He’d just seen him kill a policeman and the driver. The two men forced him into their Toyota. Then they’d driven a kilometer south of the encounter and veered off and bounced into the bush for another two. They had stopped and shoved Noga out onto the ground. They’d climbed out and now faced him.

  “So, Mr. Botlhokwa’s man, you owe us some money, I think.”

  Noga recognized the men, of course, and it was true he’d taken money from them but couldn’t be sure why they thought they deserved to have it returned. Well, he guessed he did, but he reasoned his end of the bargain was to identify a possible cargo to steal, not to guarantee its ultimate worth. These men had made it clear to Botlhokwa that that they did not consider that to be the case and Botlhokwa, in turn, had come down on Noga when he’d discovered the truth. That Takeda…if only he’d been clearer about what he considered precious. Now the ranger sat safely in jail while these men threatened to send him to join his ancestors. Noga had long abandoned the Christian notion of heaven but as he contemplated the business end of the rifle, he longed for a reasonable substitute. Clearly, no matter what he said or did in the next ten minutes, that thing might very well go off and he’d be away to some other place.