by Reapers
“It’s a risk.”
“Life’s a risk. If it ain’t why bother to keep on breathing?”
***
Noga woke. The room had become dark. When had he dropped off? The ropes still cut into his wrists and his wounds screamed for relief. The Boers were back. No luck finding their prey, apparently. He listened to their excuses trying to gauge if their failure had bought him some more time. He didn’t know why, but they had not killed him yet so there must be some connection somewhere.
“No, you did not find them. We know. Our other people did.”
“Other people? They are more than Hans and me working here? Why is that? We don’t need other people.”
“No, of course you don’t. You geniuses are the aces of criminal efficiency. First you fall for a stupid switch by that man over there.”
Noga assumed they must mean him.
“Then you shoot an innocent man in the park for no reason. Then you kill a policeman and another innocent. You go to the men who have our merchandise, and you are talked out of it. And you say you don’t need help? I don’t know who hired you or why, but I am thinking I might have to find some other line of endeavor for you two.”
“But what are these others doing, and why are they in a position to find the man?”
Noga heard a sigh. The tall man was clearly at his rope’s end with these two. Now would be a good time to offer an alternative.
“You need to understand only this. We control all ends of every deal that happens. We loaned these two men the money to buy the minerals. When they were successful in wresting it from us in the Congo, we became the buyers. So, either way, we win.”
“Then why are we looking for them when you know you will have the stuff eventually anyway?”
The lead voice muttered something that definitely didn’t sound like a compliment.
“We do not want to buy it. We will take it and then they will still owe us money. We will have them by the…how do you say?”
“Bollocks,” Noga croaked.
“You see, even our guest understands this, yes?”
“I can help you.”
“Can you now, and how will you do that? You see how it is? He is scheming to save his life. He thinks he has something we need or want, and his life is worth it. Isn’t that so, Mr. Snake?”
“It is. I have much more to offer you than these thick Dutchmen, believe me.”
“Oh, I believe that. A baboon has more to offer than these two. But they work for me. You don’t. So they live and you will die.”
“You’ll kill me before you know what I know? That does not sound like the group I thought you must represent. They are professionals.”
“And we are not?”
“You said it yourself, booted the park job, killed a constable, lost the coltan, and now police are combing the villages looking for you. If that sounds professional, I’m talking to the wrong people.”
“We shall see. What do you know that is worth your life?”
“Untie me, give me a drink, then get these two tree stumps out of my sight and I will tell you.”
Chapter Forty-four
The sun hovered on the horizon and then dipped below it. In the growing darkness, Modise met the American plane at Kasane Airport. A small jet; Modise did not know his airplanes. It could have been a Cessna or a Lear or something French, but as it belonged to the United States government the latter seemed unlikely. Three people ducked out of the plane and wobbled down the stairs that had been dropped for them by a man in uniform. The pilot probably. They spoke for a moment and then walked across the tarmac toward him. This meeting had been the cause of his missing another evening with Sanderson. His mind began to drift, and he forced himself to refocus on the task at hand. He’d already called Painter and he and Greshenko were waiting. The difficulty lay in entering the nearly finished casino without anyone noticing. It would be hard to mistake this crowd for casual tourists.
“Modise,” the director general said, “do you know Anna Tarbel? She is the American presence on this undertaking.” Modise extended his hand. She did the same, her left hand lightly touching her elbow. Nice. “And this is Jamal Mosawi from Dubai. He will be a participant in this charade as well, the Arab bit.” Modise shook his hand as well. He sensed a certain tension between the American and the man from Dubai. Because she was a woman or because she was American? He guessed a little of both and he did not want to know in any case.
Modise walked them across the empty tarmac. The plane would wait for them, or as many of them as necessary, to fly them back to Gaborone that night. Modise had arranged for a delivery van to carry them to the hotel.
“I am sorry about the ride,” he said, “but Mr. Painter, who, it turns out, is a very observant gentleman for his age, spotted a suspicious automobile at his gate. We checked the registration and it is a company car belonging to Nexus Aviation. So, I felt it reasonable to assume he is under observation by the people we are concerned about one way or another, and therefore it is necessary we not be seen entering or leaving.”
“Very clever, Mr. Modise,” Anna Tarbel said. The Arab grunted, whether signaling approval or dismay, he could not tell.
“It will be making several deliveries this night. One to the Mowana Lodge where your room is booked, Ms. Tarbel. Your people are waiting for you there and will help with the…”
Modise paused. How much did the Arab know? The director general touched his knee lightly.
“Other arrangements,” he finished. In the darkened van, he thought he caught a frown cross Mosawi’s forehead. Need to know? He’d check later. He had the van back up to a covered loading dock and the party alighted and moved quietly into the casino’s lobby. The twilight and a very dim view of the hotel allowed them to exit with out being seen.
Painter and Greshenko, both looking ill at ease, greeted them and shook hands as the party was introduced.
“Mr. Painter, I think we have you to thank for this alert.” The DG said, and pulled a pen and notebook from inside of his jacket. “We are grateful, of course, to you, Mr. Greshenko. You are doubtless under a lot of stress, I am sure. I am sorry I cannot ease that very much at this time. It is enough to know that whether we proceed this way, or as your former colleagues wished, the stress level would be the same. At least you know that you have done the right thing.”
Greshenko did not appear convinced. He’d learned survival on the other side of the fence. On this side, the legal side, he had fewer options. Botswana did not allow private firearms except in certain situations and circumstances. Modise suspected that Painter’s friend felt naked and vulnerable. He wouldn’t put it past Painter to have remedied the gun situation in his own way. He hoped not, but who could blame him?
The company sat in what would soon be the main gaming room. Greshenko described the installation of the electronic listening devices in the hotel to them. Tarbel asked a series of technical questions that persuaded Modise that if this plan had any chance of working, she was the one to do it.
“Show me the equipment you are to place in the United States’ rooms.”
Greshenko made an array of items that looked nothing like what Modise had expected. The truth, he didn’t know what to expect. His experience with this sort of thing was limited to some of his training years ago at Quantico, and a few raids on houses in the newer area in Phakalane outside Gaborone. The set-up then had been pretty old school. Nothing as sophisticated as these bits and pieces, some no larger than a straight pin.
“That is a microphone?”
The woman looked up and smiled. “Lovely, isn’t it? And it can pick up sounds as far away as thirty feet…nine or ten meters. And this,” she lifted a small cylinder the diameter of a pencil and shorter than his first knuckle, “is the camera to go with it.”
Modise was impressed. “It is amazing. The miniaturization, I mean.”
“Yes it is, but Mr. Mosawi will tell you that this is last year’s technology.”
Mosawi sm
iled for the first time. This Tarbel was no fool, Modise thought. She just bought him.
“Oh yes, Inspector, now it is even much smaller. But this is very good, very good. Mr. Greshenko, the apparatus in your rooms is similar?”
Greshenko nodded. “Nearly so. Some of it is older but it is all quite good.”
“I think,” the DG said, “that it would be a good idea to recap for us exactly what you were asked to do, Mr. Greshenko. You told Mr. Painter, who then summarized your understanding of the situation to Modise, who then spoke to me and, well, you see, there is some distance between the beginning of this narrative and its end. It would be tragic if we were to proceed under a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, of course.” Greshenko looked nervously around the room. He let out a sigh and began. “My former colleagues, if that is what they are, called me to Gaborone. I met with them and they required of me a certain task.”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Greshenko, but do you have any idea…was there any indication which branch of the Bratva they represented?”
“It might have been Bout or what is left of his organization, but I think it was this new operator, Oleg Lenka. The man who spoke to me was an old apparatchik, you know, from Soviet days.”
“Sorry, go on with your story.”
“Yes. Well, they threatened to expose me to the Russian and Botswana authorities. That would be you, I suppose, if I did not cooperate.”
The DG nodded and indicated Greshenko should continue.
“The task is, or I should say was, to plant listening devices and cameras in the rooms in this hotel where the Arab visitors would be staying as I have just outlined for you. Then I was to use the money they gave me to bribe my way into the Mowana Lodge and perform the same operation in the rooms to be used by the American delegation, particularly the secretary of state. The first part of the job is complete. I have not attempted the second part of the mission, as you know.”
“And what of the money? What were you to do with the surplus, assuming there was any?”
“Return it. Of course, they will expect me to skim a little. It is the custom.”
“Very well, here is the valise. We calculated what it might have required in bribes and removed that amount. The remainder, minus your skim, you may return to your controller. And good luck with that.” The director general thanked Painter and Greshenko and gestured toward the door. “This is the end of the story for you two gentlemen. We will take it from here. It is unwise for you to know any more than you do. Mr. Greshenko, when the set-up has been completed in the Mowana lodge we will let you know so that you can contact…what are we to call those people?”
“Agents provocateurs,” Tarbel suggested.
“Too soft, too intellectual, Ms. Tarbel, with respect. They are a threat to the security of this nation and perhaps to the larger world. No, I think something grittier would be more appropriate.”
“Hyenas,” Modise said.
“Very good, Modise. Precisely. Hyenas scavenge after bigger animals. They pick on the weak and the unwary, and they are also entirely unpleasant. Yes, we will let you know when we are done so you can contact your hyenas.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Director General.” Leo Painter stood arms akimbo at the door. A man on first name basis with senators, federal judges, and at least one ex-president was not satisfied with the dismissal. “What happens to Yuri? You can’t just let him twist in the wind.”
“We will do what we can, Mr. Painter. You need to know this much, no more. Ms. Tarbel here will see to the installation of the equipment. It will be up and running by tomorrow, we hope. If so, you may inform your contacts then, Greshenko. It will function perfectly. The listeners, whom we assume in the end will be Russian intelligence, will hear and see all—the arrival of the party, some disingenuous conversation—and so on. Then, within an hour or so, the signal will be jammed.”
“Jammed? How jammed? This will bring holy hell down on Yuri’s head.”
“No, no. They will learn that a leak opened in their system. It appears that your CIA has been dealing with a former associate of Igor Sechin for some time. The information was turned up quite coincidentally.”
“You think they will believe that?”
“There is precious little loyalty in the dark side of the Russian intelligence community, it seems. Do not fear, the CIA is, in fact working with this man and the leak will be verified. You, Mr. Greshenko, will be in the clear. What will happen after this, however, I cannot say. They will either discard you, or return for more favors. Unless we can expunge this Lenka organization from the country, you will remain at risk. For what it’s worth, I suspect you knew this day would eventually come. It seems it has and that will have to do for now.”
With apparent reluctance, Painter and Greshenko left the room. Tarbel reached into her briefcase, removed a scanner, and proceeded to insure that Greshenko had not bugged this room as well. Satisfied he had not, she nodded and Modise and the remaining members of the party sorted the equipment and settled on the operational plan.
Tarbel carrying a suitcase of equipment was “delivered” by van to the Mowana Lodge, the DG and the agent from Dubai to the airport. At midnight, Modise found himself alone in his room at the Marina Lodge, He resisted the temptation to call Sanderson. He poured a night cap, finished it, and turned in.
When his light went out, the men standing in the shadows across the areaway stretched and left. Their replacements would resume the watch in the morning.
Chapter Forty-five
Rra Botlhokwa tossed and turned in his bed. Scented satin sheets did not produce the expected effect of easing him into unconsciousness. He’d had a bad day. His man Cunningham had been killed in cold blood and it wasn’t like he could call the police and report it. Quite the contrary. He had the body taken out to the park through the new entry through the fence he’d ordered placed a few days previously. His men, who’d looked decidedly ill at ease, had dumped Cunningham in the river. The crocodiles and tiger fish would take care of the evidence, or most of it. They’d all heard the whispers but now they must realize the threats by the gangsters from South Africa were real and at this moment Botlhokwa had no answers for them. He could only play along until this nonsense with the attorney general’s indictment had been dealt with. He would need to make a call to his contact in Gaborone, the man he referred to as Minister, although he’d not yet served in that capacity.
Losing forty percent of his take would hurt. Still, he had his accounts in the bank in Mauritius and his place in Cape Town. Perhaps he should simply slip away and let them scramble for the leftovers. Perhaps the AG would quash the indictment in exchange for these gangsters. But could he deliver them?
Sleep would not come. He rose and put on a robe. The bottle of single malt and a glass had been set out for him. He shuffled over to the credenza and poured a substantial portion, light on the spritz, and eased out through a pair of French doors to the terrace. The air seemed particularly hot and humid, the night unusually quiet. He sipped his drink and contemplated the options available to him. Standing there in the dim moonlight these thoughts running through his mind, the last thing he expected was the bag thrown over his head and the rough arms around his waist that lifted him in the air. He started to cry out when a sharp pain on his temple and sudden blackness ended it.
He woke up, he couldn’t say how much later, lying on a concrete floor, the bag still over his head. He tried to move but his legs and hands were fastened. Duct tape. He shouted only to receive what he assumed was a kick in the stomach. Voices, indistinct, the chirp of a mobile phone. A conversation, he thought he heard his name mentioned. Then silence, the sound of footsteps moving away. Botlhokwa felt the vomit rise in his throat. He dared not throw up in the confines of the bag. He swallowed repeatedly and managed to gain control of his gag reflex. What next?
***
Someone tore the sack from his head. The rough burlap scratched his cheek as it pulled away. He stared up into
a bright light. He could see nothing except the trouser cuffs and shoes of someone standing in front of him.
“Rra, you are with us, I see. We thought you might have dozed off for a minute.”
“Who are you and what do you want? I insist you untie me. Otherwise it will go very hard on you.” His voice sounded harsh and ragged from the acid reflux he’d managed to contain earlier. His response only produced laughter. There seemed to be more than one person in the room. Did he recognize one of those laughing?
“Put him in a chair.”
He was lifted and plopped down hard in a wooden chair. Botlhokwa did not usually sit in wooden chairs. Cushioned leather, damask, soft.
“What do you want from me? I have already conceded a large share of my earnings to you. You want more? How much more?”
“We have decided we want it all. It appears having you as a partner has become a liability. You are poison, Rra.”
“All? That’s absurd. Do you think I will work for you for nothing?”
“Work for nothing? No, no of course not. We are replacing you completely, you see?”
“Replace? How? I know too many things and only I can make this group function properly.”
“Certainly the first part is correct, unfortunately for you. You do know too much. You might just spill that to the attorney general. Yes? Did that thought cross your mind? I will take a stab and say it did. No matter. Not going to happen. As to the second, we have your replacement.”
“My replacement? Who?”
“We have had a wide ranging conversation with your man, Noga. We were going to do you a favor and dispose of him as you asked, but before we could do that we received disturbing news from Gaborone—the indictment, but you know all about that—and then he persuaded us he knew enough about your business to run it until sometime later when we reorganize our affairs in this part of the country.”
