Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  “Yes, sir,” Dawson replied. “Please, what is the specific strategy for the raid?”

  “We have at least two groups of illegal miners working inside this part of Dunkwa Forest,” Frimpong said. “In fact, if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of their excavators from here. We’re splitting up to carry out dual operations as simultaneously as possible. If we do only the forest first, some of the illegals might escape under foliage cover and go to warn the others.”

  Dawson nodded. Frimpong took a folded sheet of paper from his top pocket and smoothed it over the hood of the SUV.

  “So, we are here,” he said, pointing to the diagram. “We will go through the tip of the forest, here. At the other side, we will come to the American man’s site first, and then the first of the Chinese illegals at this site.” He circled it.

  The Lius’ site, Dawson thought.

  “Now,” Frimpong said, “I understand you are familiar with these two spots through your investigations of the murder of the Chinese man. What do you know that might help us?”

  Dawson produced his own sketch from his pocket and went through it with the DSP.

  “We will first arrive at Chuck Granger’s mining area, sir,” Dawson said, circling his finger around the spot. “He has a cabin concealed by the trees over here to the left as we approach. It’s a potential hiding place, and a sniper could shoot at us from there and then disappear into the forest.”

  “I appreciate that piece of information,” Frimpong said. “I wasn’t aware.”

  “The mining pits on Granger’s property are very deep,” Dawson continued, tapping each one, “and the tops and sides are muddy and slippery. In other words, we should proceed with caution, sir.”

  Frimpong nodded and pointed to the second set of pits on the diagram. “And these shallow pits are on the Chinese man’s site?”

  “Yes, the Chinese guys never had as much machine power as Mr. Granger,” Dawson explained, “so their pits are shallower to enable the workers to get in and out.”

  “Got it.”

  “However, sir,” Dawson said emphatically, “Mr. Liu does have one pit that is deep. That’s this one with the bridge over here to the right. It’s off this bridge that Amos Okoh fell—or was made to—and drowned. Again, sir, the men must tread with caution. Now, the shack you see over here on the Liu’s site, sir, is on higher ground than the pits; therefore, our men running up to it could be subject to gunfire.”

  “Thank you, Dawson,” Frimpong said, sincerely. “This is really good work. I will put in a good word about you to your superiors.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dawson and Kobby followed the military and police units, the 4th Battalion taking the lead through the dappled shade of neat rows of cocoa trees fringing the southern portion of Dunkwa Forest. All this could disappear and give way to mining grounds, Dawson thought. All it would take was a bulldozer—with or without the permission of the cocoa farmer.

  As the forest ended, the cocoa farm trailed off and gave way to banana trees, oil palms, and shrubbery. The procession stopped for a moment. They could hear the drone of excavators in the distance. Dawson and Kobby were in the back of the pack, so they never saw the sergeant’s signal to begin the raid. The units exploded out of the trees with a swiftness and ferocity that startled even Dawson, and he burst into a run himself to keep up, Kobby right at his side.

  Dawson saw Chuck Granger’s site ahead. It was deserted. Tipped off by someone, Dawson thought. Who? Approaching the ridge between two of Granger’s huge pits, the men fell back to single file, slowing their pace slightly because of the risk of falling. Now the Liu site was coming up, but Dawson couldn’t see all the way to the front until the men spread out and charged into the area, separating off into sections. One group charged up to the shed, kicking the door open and entering. But they came out empty-handed. Other soldiers went on to the bridged pit, as Dawson had suggested to Frimpong, but they found no one.

  Dawson turned in a circle, searching for some sign of life. The rusty sluice boxes were still there, sad and lonely, and so was the excavator. But no illegal miners were in sight anywhere. Frimpong and the sergeant gave instructions and the units dispersed into the surrounding forest. A lot of thrashing around and yelling followed, but minutes later, the men came back reporting that nothing and no one could be found. Dawson beckoned to his constable to follow him as he went into the shed. Apart from a few mud-caked rags, it was empty. No machetes, firearms, or spent shells.

  “Nothing here, boss,” Kobby said, standing arms akimbo. “Do you think the miners have abandoned the area and gone to another site?”

  Dawson shook his head. “No, they would not have left the excavator here.” Clearly, someone had tipped off Wei and his crew as well, but Dawson kept that to himself. They left the shed and went back to the units where Frimpong and the sergeant were conferring and making phone calls. The guys stood around waiting for orders, many of them looking disappointed at how this so-called operation had come to nothing, ending as quickly as it had begun.

  Dawson joined the two leaders in discussion.

  “We’re moving on to the next mining site,” the sergeant said. “It’s over that hill.”

  Dawson followed his pointing finger across the ravaged landscape.

  The men fell into formation and the procession went at a steady trot up the rough incline. The drone of the excavators, now an all too familiar sound to Dawson, became louder. Just over the hill, he saw a site below them that was severalfold larger than the Lius’. It sprawled within a valley up to the Ofin River, which they could see now. Four excavators were at work scooping up enormous heaps of earth from the edges of the pits and swinging around to drop the payloads into the washing trommel, which processed a thousand times what manual washing with a sluice box could handle.

  Ghanaians were working the excavators, while seven Chinese men supervised. One of them spotted the invading troops above them as the ambush commenced. He shouted out and began running in the opposite direction. The other six Chinese men scattered, and the Ghanaians leapt out of the excavator cabs. One of them lost his footing and slid down the side of a pit, clawing at the wet mud as he tried to stop himself plunging into the milky water below. He stopped barely a foot before the water’s edge.

  With Kobby next to him, Dawson followed the military and police part of the way as they swarmed in and chaos erupted. Two Chinese men slipped and fell and were set upon by the men of Bravo. One tried to run to the forest but was intercepted by a soldier who clubbed him on the side of the head. He went down like an axed odum tree.

  Breaking up into smaller groups, the men of the 4th attacked the four shacks dotted around the property, pulling out bewildered Chinese men and one woman, all of whom were made to lie prostrate. But some of them didn’t understand the shouted orders, causing more confusion and resulting in their being shoved to the ground.

  Dawson never saw anyone setting the shacks alight, but they were ablaze in short order, and Dawson felt the heat from the closest one. DSP Frimpong appeared from the other side of the blaze.

  “You and Kobby should retreat a bit,” he warned. “You are too close.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dawson beckoned to Kobby to pull back with him.

  As he turned, his blood turned to ice as he saw a Chinese man appear from the forest with a pump shotgun held at waist level. He brought it up, and Dawson heard the crisp metal click of the fore-end as the man pulled it back and forward again.

  “Gun!” Dawson screamed, and dived.

  He heard the initial crack of the shot, brief and sharp, followed by the reverberation swelling and ricocheting as light as air throughout the valley. Two meters away, Kobby went to the ground, and at first Dawson thought that he was scrambling for cover. But the way he collapsed and flipped over said everything: he had been hit.

  Dawson scuttled across the ground
toward the constable like a crab. Kobby.

  He heard the shotgun fore-end slide harshly back and forward again and thought, He’s going to kill me, but perhaps the Chinese man jammed his weapon or had an unexpectedly empty chamber. No report came. Instead, automatic fire from a Battalion soldier’s weapon rang out like a tongue rolling its Rs, and the Chinese gunman crumpled dead as dry twigs.

  Dawson was at the constable’s side. “Kobby, Kobby, look at me.”

  His eyes were open, staring unfocused. Dawson’s heart leapt as they shifted and looked at him. Blood was expanding on the right side of Kobby’s chest. Dawson lifted the constable’s shirt and singlet underneath. “Kobby, breathe. You’re hit, but you’re going to live. Believe me, okay?”

  Dawson was trying to see where the wound was and realized Kobby had several. He had been peppered with shots. Dawson shouted for a medic. Is there a medic? He didn’t even know.

  “Massa, I’m sorry,” Kobby whispered.

  “Sorry for what?” Dawson said sharply. “Stop it. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Kobby was staring vacantly at the sky but Dawson forced the constable to redirect his gaze. “Look at me. You tell yourself you’re going to live and not die, you hear me? You don’t ever give up. You keep your eyes open, and you keep breathing, okay?”

  Kobby seemed to be hanging on Dawson’s every word. “Yes, sir. I will do that, sir.”

  A soldier was running up the incline to them. “What happened?”

  “Shotgun blast. Are you a medic?”

  His ID plate read essien. “No, sir,” he said. “There is no medic here.”

  Dawson removed his shirt and bunched it up, giving it to Essien. “Press on his bleeding areas hard as possible,” he said, and then got on his phone to call their driver. Kobby would need to be transported out as soon as possible. Members of the 4th and Bravo were coming over as they began to realize that one of their own had been hit. On the floor of the mining valley, a dozen or so Chinese men were kneeling or lying on the ground handcuffed and subdued. The Ghanaians had fled, but then they had never been targets in the first place.

  Dawson was shocked when he saw the men of Bravo setting the excavators alight under orders from the sergeant. Why not simply confiscate them for use elsewhere? Then, as word spread from one man to the next about what had happened to Kobby, what Dawson feared was going to happen did indeed begin. The men of Bravo and the 4th began to take it out on the Chinese, slapping, clubbing, and punching them. It wasn’t right, but then Dawson was in no mood to be a hero for the Chinese. He just wished they would go away and leave his country alone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  At KATH, Dawson sat in the packed waiting area quietly praying for good news. Kobby had been taken into surgery almost immediately. If he died, Dawson would never live it down. Yes, he took the blame. A chief inspector looks after his men. He and Kobby had been standing too close to the mayhem. He should have pulled back to behind the cover of trees and taken the constable with him. That way, they would not have been in the Chinese madman’s line of fire.

  Over and over, Dawson kept hearing the click-clack of the shotgun’s fore-end, the snap of the report, and its echo through the valley. Nor could he forget the way Kobby had dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks.

  His phone rang. It was Commander Longdon.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “I heard about the incident. What happened?”

  “Kobby and I were standing at the perimeter of the property as the raid was being conducted,” Dawson explained. “From behind us and a little to the side, a Chinese guy came out with a shotgun and began shooting.”

  “No, you and Constable Kobby were not standing at the perimeter of the property,” Longdon said, raising his voice angrily. “You were standing right in the middle of the action, which you had been specifically instructed not to do. You were sent as an observer, but as usual, you overstepped your bounds. You see, this is the reason I do not send detectives on such raids. Did I not say so at the meeting?”

  He’s enjoying this. “Yes, sir. You did, sir.”

  “Yet you chose to disregard me, and as a result, a man may lose his life. Do you realize that?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Longdon heaved a sigh. “You will write a full and complete account of the event and have it for me Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp. Thereafter, I will decide if you will be disciplined or not. Consider yourself lucky if I don’t take you off the case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Empty threats, Dawson thought with a grim smile. Longdon couldn’t take him off the case and he knew it. He would get into more trouble than it was worth when DCOP Manu summoned him to account for his actions. Nonetheless, Dawson felt no better about the way the day had turned out. After the call ended, he sat dejected and brooded until he heard his name called and looked up to see Christine coming toward him. He had texted her briefly about the affair, and she had replied she would come down to the hospital to sit with him.

  She forced herself into the tight space beside him. “Any news?”

  Dawson shook his head. “Not yet. It’s been almost two hours now. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “We can only hope for the best,” she said.

  “I appreciate your coming,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “Mama took the kids?”

  “Yes, she did, and gladly. You know her. Any excuse to look after them.”

  Dawson smiled, realizing that despite his reservations about his mother-in-law, she was often a godsend. He gave a detailed account of the raid and the shooting to Christine, who nodded at intervals as she listened carefully.

  “I know you’re blaming yourself, because that’s your nature,” she said, when he was done, “but if you had been farther back from the scene, it might not have made any difference. He was still going to come up behind you. In fact, it might have been worse if he had shot at you and Kobby from close range.”

  Dawson cocked his head and conceded her point. Christine really knew how to make him feel better.

  A nurse came to the corner of the waiting area and beckoned to Dawson. He stood up and followed her to the operating suite anteroom.

  “Doctor will be with you,” she said. “Please, have a seat.”

  Dawson sat, his stomach churning. He felt sick with anxiety and suspense.

  The surgeon emerged, surgical mask dangling from around his neck. Dawson tried to read his face, but it was neutral.

  He sat beside Dawson, looking tired. “Good news, Chief Inspector.”

  Dawson felt some of the tension leave him, like a stretched rubber band returning to normal length.

  “Mr. Kobby suffered a collapsed lung,” the surgeon continued, “but we have now expanded it with a chest tube. Other than that, the shot penetrated soft tissue and shattered some ribs, but nothing life threatening.”

  Dawson found himself hyperventilating with relief. “Thank you, Doctor. From the bottom of my heart.”

  He smiled. “You are welcome. He will be in recovery for about an hour, and then return to the ward for further treatment.”

  “But you think he’ll be okay?” Dawson asked, needing the certainty.

  “Barring the unforeseen,” the doctor said.

  “I’m very grateful to you for all you have done. If I had lost him . . .”

  The surgeon smiled as he stood up. “Yes, I know.”

  Dawson was at Kobby’s bedside when he woke up. He looked around, puzzled.

  “You’re in the hospital,” Dawson told him. “Do you remember what happened?”

  Kobby shook his head, looking down at his bandaged chest. “No, sir.” He winced at the large-bore tube in his right side.

  “You were shot,” Dawson said.

  Kobby searched his mind. “I remember the mission, boss—going t
o get the Chinese guys, but what happened after that is completely blank.”

  “It’s okay,” Dawson said reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Were you all right, sir?” Kobby asked him, turning his baby face to look at him.

  “Fortunately, yes.”

  “What about the guy . . .”

  “Dead,” Dawson said. “One of the soldiers took him down.”

  Kobby reflected on that for a moment. “So, apart from what happened to me, the mission was completed successfully?”

  “Yes,” Dawson said. “Well, except that you were injured. You and I were standing too close to the raid, and that’s my fault.”

  “Oh no, sir . . .” He trailed off, appearing saddened that Dawson felt that way.

  Dawson stood up. “You should rest, Kobby. I will come back to see you tomorrow.”

  Christine was still in the waiting area and texting a friend when Dawson emerged. “How is he?” she asked, standing up.

  “He’s holding up well,” Dawson said. “He’s a good man. Come on, let’s go home. I’m tired.”

  It was now dusk, and the street outside KATH was lit with roadside vendors cooking up goat or chicken kebab, or waakye, or banku and okro stew. Dawson and Christine walked side by side. He was despondent and wished he could start the day over.

  “You came by cab?” he asked Christine.

  “No,” she said airily. “I came in the four-by-four.”

  “What four-by-four?” Dawson asked, looking at her in puzzlement.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing to a huge black Toyota Land Cruiser gleaming under the streetlamps.

  Dawson laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “Don’t believe me?” she asked, taking keys out of her purse. The Cruiser’s lights flashed twice, as if winking at them.

  Dawson stopped in amazement. “Wait a minute. Whose vehicle is that?”

  “It’s mine,” she said simply. “Come along.”