Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 02

by Reapers

  “You were tasked to find our merchandise.”

  “Tasked? I am not someone’s errand boy. I agreed that I would, for a reasonable fee, find the coltan your employer misplaced. I have done so. I am waiting to hear from my man that it has arrived safely at its destination. That is all.”

  “Even as we speak, your man is currently locked up in our warehouse keeping company with a Doberman pinscher that suffers from what you might say is an erratic disposition. We never know what that animal will do next, but if your man stays very still, he may live long enough for us to dispose of him later in a less painful way.”

  Botlhokwa swallowed and reached for one of the remaining cigars. “What do you mean, he’s locked up?”

  “Locked up? What is there to know? He is sitting on a chair murmuring soothing words to a lunatic dog. He would be tied to the chair, but for this dog. But locked away is just that. You see, you were not completely candid with me the last time we met. You said that you did not know who had cheated us, but you assured us it was a rogue acting in your name only. You said you would find this man and make restitution and so on.”

  “Yes, and I will.”

  The man let his feet scrape off the desk top and crash to the floor. He stood and leaned so far across the desk that his nose was no more than ten centimeters from Botlhokwa’s.

  “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I am just another one of the petty grifters you are used to dealing with?”

  “Petty…I do not deal with petty anythings. My connections reach into the highest level in the government. I—”

  “You are small potatoes to us. You continue to work your small dodges here because it pleases us to let you. You are thought to be useful. You should concentrate on staying that way. When that is no longer the case, you will disappear. Do you understand?”

  “Just who do you think you are? Let my man outside go, and we will see who is ‘tasking’ whom.”

  “Let him go? Certainly, if you insist.” He barked an order to someone on the other side of the door. Botlhokwa did not recognize the language at first. Then he heard the gunshot and realized it didn’t matter.

  “So, we have let your man go. To heaven or hell, I don’t know him well enough to say. Now, we will continue our discussion. As long as we find you useful, you will continue to operate exactly as you have. Forty percent of your gross profits will be remitted to us and you will make your people available to us from time to time for, shall we say, special projects.”

  Botlhokwa’s cigar had dropped to the floor at the gunshot. It had started to singe the silk Qom-Mohsenzadeh carpet he’d bought in Iran. That was before it became unwise to travel in that country. He did not try to retrieve it. He stared slack-jawed at the man sitting across from him.

  “You are from…who? Which family? Bout is out of circulation, maybe dead, and that means you must be with—”

  “It is not important to say who, you understand, not just now. As I said we have your man who calls himself Snake. He has had some words with us, and so we know now that you lied to us. It is a great mistake to lie to the Bratva, yes?”

  Botlhokwa nodded. “Of course, but I did not know Noga had done this thing at the time we spoke before and—”

  “And? Yes, and then you found out, but still forgot to mention it to us. You wanted to play both of us off, no? But we find this out. You see, your man, Snake, is not so tough as he thought. It took very little persuading to get him to chatter away like a little schoolgirl.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Ah, now you are beginning to see the picture. Very well, I have laid out the broad outlines of our partnership already. Shall I repeat?”

  Botlhokwa shook his head. He didn’t need to hear them again.

  “No? Good. When our people retrieve the minerals, we will move on to the next step. You will be contacted.”

  The man rose, ground out the stub of his cigar on the antique desk’s polished surface, and walked to the door.

  “You have some rubbish out here that will require removing.”

  The door swung inward, but only as far as Cunningham’s foot allowed.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Harvey and Jack finished piling the cones of ersatz orgonite into the back of their truck. They had barely enough room for the load, and in fact, had to stack some of it behind the seat in the cab. They finished securing a tarpaulin over the bed and stepped back to inspect the job.

  “The lads did a good job with the cones. That Bondo hardens in a hurry, for a cert.”

  “Body workers’ delight. They need to move the wrecks in and out in a hurry, so they insist the formula have quick hardening characteristics. Smear it on, let it set, sand it, paint it, and out the door.”

  “Good for us, too, we need to get these bits positioned chop-chop. The money boys will be wanting their pay-back and the buyers are itching to get their hands on this stuff.”

  “Jack, maybe this isn’t the time to question the deal, but don’t you get the feeling that this has been a little too easy?”

  “Easy? How so?”

  “Well, okay, first you connect with the Congo chap and arrange to buy the goods. He says it’s a go, and so then we need more money than we can shake a stick at to close the deal. ‘Where is it coming from,’ I ask. Then, out of the blue, a guy just happens to sit down next to us in the restaurant and he just happens to be interested in advancing us the bloody lolly. Is anybody ever that lucky?”

  “So? It happens. Be happy, Harv.”

  “And then, by Nelly be damned, here comes a buyer who just happens to have heard about the coltan from the money chap. None of this strikes you as a bit jiggy somehow?”

  “Money is money. Listen, we’ve had our ups and downs of late. But the bad luck can’t last forever. It’s the law of compensation, see? For each drawback, there’s a leap forward. And after what…two years in one backwater or another, we stumble on a good deal. This is our leap forward. As soon as we collect the swag, we fly away to where the palm trees sway and lovely brown-skinned ladies wait on a chap hand and foot.”

  “I still don’t like it. This has all been too easy and that Noga person asked too many questions. Let’s get this stuff out into the park, mark it up on the GPS thing, and get the bloody hell out of here.”

  “You worry too much, Harvey. Whoa, who’s this?”

  ***

  The two Boers had left Noga locked in a closet with a dog. It occurred to them that the Toyota had been spotted so they had switched to an old Lada four-wheel drive they’d driven in earlier from South Africa. The left hand drive still caused some difficulties causing the driver to over-steer into the curb and then swerve over into the oncoming lane. They pulled up in front of the shack on the edge of Kazungula late in the afternoon. The two rooinecks, the “English” Noga had told them about, stood watching them as they pulled to a stop.

  “They’ve loaded it into their bakkie.”

  “That’s good. They can drive it to the warehouse for us then. Or we may do that job for them.”

  They stepped down from the SUV and crunched across the gravel toward the other two. The shooter held his rifle down at his side, along his pants leg. There were cars passing by and he did not want it to be seen and produce a call by a concerned citizen to the police. The two men watching their approach saw it, however.

  “Here, what’s this all about?” the first one said.

  “Jack, he’s holding a gun.”

  “I can see that. And I’m holding a mobile phone, Harvey, so we’re about Even Steven, I’d say.”

  The lead Boer took a step forward and swatted the phone to the ground. He moved with remarkable speed for a man of his bulk.

  “No phone. Now, please, you will show us the goods you have taken from our boss.”

  “Goods? You barking mad, chum. We have nobody’s goods but our own, thank you very much.”

  “I told you this was too easy. We’ve been set up.”

  “Stay calm
, Harvey. Look here, there’s been a mistake. You boys have us confused with somebody else.”

  “No confusion. The Botlhokwa man, Noga, said you are the ones. Let’s see what you have here.”

  While the shooter kept Jack and Harvey at bay, the other stepped up to the truck and slashed the tarpaulin open with his knife.

  “What is this?” He reached into the bed of the truck and withdrew a cone-shaped object about the half the size of a traffic warning device. “He has done it to us again,” he screamed. He held the cone above his head and then threw it against the shack. It shattered, scattering dust and debris in all directions.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s the same stupid sheis that Noga person sent us after before. It’s…look for yourself. It’s rubbish.”

  Jack and Harvey exchanged looks. Harvey gave Jack a wink and turned to the two men.

  “Here now, that’s valuable stuff you’re tossing about. That’s orgonite. It will heal the planet. Haven’t you heard about Operation Paradise”

  “What?”

  “S’truth, those cones have power. You put them down in the proper place on the old terra firma and they radiate healing energy. Why, you sure you haven’t heard about this? Wait a sec. Now I get it, you’re from the United Nations, the Health Organization, right? You’re here to stop us. Well listen, Mr. UN obstructionist, you may stop us this time, but there are hundreds, no thousands, of us out there and we will overcome.” Harvey placed his hand on his heart as he spoke. Jack lowered his chin to his chest and hoped the guys with the beards didn’t catch his smile.

  The big man, the one holding the knife, looked addled; the other kept glancing over his shoulder at the road. Traffic, for some reason, had slowed and it made him nervous. At that moment, three of the young men who’d help create the cones turned the corner and walked up.

  “What is this?” one said as he fingered the ripped edge of the tarpaulin.

  “”Not to worry, Tailor,” Jack said, keeping a straight face, “These gents have us confused with someone else, I think. Or are you from the UN after all?”

  “”UN? What about the UN? You,” the Boer said to the man Jack had called Tailor, “who are you?”

  “I am Taolo Rapolasa. My friends and I helped these men prepare the orgonite for placement. We have returned to see if we can offer more help.”

  “No probs, Tailor, my son. We’re good to go as soon as these gents leave.”

  The two Boers retreated to their vehicle. Whether they believed the “English” or not, a multiple shooting on a busy street did not seem a good idea. And, there was only crap in the truck anyway. They would have to have more words with Noga. This time there would be pain involved.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Sanderson and Mpitle had managed to assemble an outfit which she thought passable. She did not know what one wore to dinner at the Marina Lodge. Eating out did not happen in her life. Not anymore. Duty kept her in the park, economics kept her in her kitchen. The last time she dined out had been nearly ten years before with her late husband. They had separated earlier, another woman—or was it two, three? It didn’t matter any more. And suddenly he called to talk about reconciliation. She’d agreed to talk to him but only in a public place. She would not be reduced to porridge by those brown eyes this time. So, they had met, she determined to resist any talk of his returning, he to inform her he had contracted AIDs and would most probably die in a year. It was a time before the retro virus treatments were generally available.

  How could she resist?

  She adjusted the scarf Mpitle had loaned her. It had been a present from her boyfriend, David, a nice boy, hard worker, but Mpitle was too young to be thinking of boys, wasn’t she? An expensive scarf, if a label that said Dolce and Gabbbna meant what she thought it did. David had found it on the path. Some rich woman’s carelessness had been Mpitle’s good fortune. She walked into the lobby area searching for Modise. When he didn’t appear in ten minutes, she considered turning and leaving. He was a busy man. No doubt he’d received an important call from Gaborone.

  “Sanderson, there you are. Where are you going? The restaurant is the other way, come.”

  She smiled and hoped she did not look so out of place in this expensive tourist hotel. The woman behind the desk smiled at her. What did that mean? Did she look dowdy? She felt dowdy. Or was she laughing at her because she was a simple woman from the village, a square peg in a round hole?

  “You are looking very fine, Sanderson. Is that a new dress?”

  This situation, she hoped, would soon reveal itself to be a dream, a bad dream. How to answer this question? Oh yes, it is something I just picked up…where? She didn’t even know the name of a fancy dress shop. No, it is ten years old and if I move too quickly or, Lord forbid, bend over, I will split every seam in it. She resisted the temptation to laugh. If she started, she knew she would not be able to stop and that could produce more disastrous consequences.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They found a table with a view of the river and Modise ordered a bottle of wine. He asked her for her preference. She had none. She hadn’t drunk wine since that time when her husband had cajoled his way back into her house long enough to die. She smiled and tried to look at ease. This was a big mistake, for sure.

  Modise made small talk until their food arrived. Then, while they ate grilled kudu and salad, he told her about the shooting on the Nata road and the suspicion he had that the killers of the constable and truck driver were the same as the ones who’d shot the man in the park.

  “I know that constable. He came to the park with Superintendent Mwambe that day. His name is…let me think…Carl something. Oh yes, Carl Kgobela. He…they killed him? Why?”

  “We can’t be sure. They probably thought he would arrest them. He would have, too. Who the other man was, or why he was killed, I don’t know. They found his body in the cab of a bakkie belonging to a local big shot. We don’t know if there is a connection that way or not.”

  “The big shot wouldn’t be Rra Botlhokwa would it? If so, I am guessing there very definitely is a connection. That man has fingers in everybody’s pudding around here. I do not know why he is not in jail.” She noticed a flicker in Modise’s eyes. Did that mean Botlhokwa will be going to jail? That is news.

  “Yes, well, there are all sorts of reasons why he is still around. A new topic, something cheerful.”

  They asked for their coffees to be served to them out on the terrace. They settled on chairs and watched a boat head upstream against the setting sun.

  “So, Sanderson, I know you as the famous game ranger, but I do not know your whole name. Why is that?”

  “It is because you have never asked me, Kgabo Modise. That is why. Are you asking me now? And I am not famous.”

  “People will disagree. Yes, certainly I am asking, but I am embarrassed for having to do it. My social skills are wanting, I think.”

  “I will not comment on that. I am not known for my ability to charm or converse with any wit either. Perhaps we are the peas in the pod.”

  “I think you are being too modest. I think you are only out of practice while I have never been any good at this.”

  “We will never get very far if we spend this evening telling ourselves what dunces we are.”

  “Sorry. I will be a non-dunce if I can. So, what is your full name? That is where all this started.”

  “My name is Mpoo Kgopa Sanderson. The people of my village call me Mma Michael. You see, not so hard.”

  “Kgopa? You are a snail?”

  “The naming came from my uncles the one who says he saw a saucy look from me when I was brought home and he thought kgopa, snail, would keep me humble. It didn’t, I don’t believe.”

  “I will call you Sanderson or Mma Michael. Snail does not suit you. You are much too quick to be thought as one of those.”

  “Ah, well. I have never eaten one, but in France they eat them and also frogs.” She made a face
at the thought of a cooked amphibian.

  “So I am told. And they think we are strange for eating phane. It is a strange world. So much division over so little difference.”

  “Division? I see. Well, calling me Sanderson is fine. It is how I am known.” She wondered if there was any point to this conversation and if Modise would ever get to it.

  “They serve very fine food here,” he said.

  “Yes, they do. They say the Old House has a very fine steak dinner.”

  “Do they? We should eat there next time.”

  “There is to be a next time, Modise?”

  “Kgabo.”

  “Kgabo, then. There is to be a next time?”

  “I hope so. I mean there is much to discuss about the business in the park, of course, and the cameras, and so on. Oh yes, I think another meeting is needed, truly.”

  Sanderson smiled. “Oh, I see, indeed the business in the park, illegal entry, surveillance measures. Yes, to be sure, and dinner in an expensive restaurant is the very best place for us to discuss these important topics. With wine and dessert, of course. Modise, what are you about?”

  “Kgabo.”

  “Answer me and then I will decide if you are Christian name friend or a surname friend.”

  “You are a hard woman, Sanderson. No, I take that back. You are a soft woman in a man’s world so you act very tough.” Modise paused and contemplated the boat which seemed to have finished whatever it needed to do upstream and now putted back toward the Mowana Lodge. “Very well…I am not good at this. I am a cop twenty-four seven, Mma Michael, and that is mostly what I think about so…but, I find you very ah…”

  “Annoying? Pushy? Dowdy? I feel dowdy, you know, sitting here in my ten-year-old dress and pretending I know what I am doing.” Where did that outburst come from?