Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  “I hope you’re better than the crime officer who was there before,” Tanbry said.

  “He died of a stroke,” Dawson said. “He had been sick for some time.”

  “Oh, damn. Sorry. Is that guy Longdon still there?”

  “The commander? Yes, he is. Did you have contact with him concerning the robbery you experienced near Pakyi?”

  “Yeah. After weeks of the crime officer at the time doing practically nothing—I guess he was sick, like you say—I went upstairs to see the commander to ask what gives with the investigation. ‘Oh, we’re working on it,’ he says. ‘We have several leads,’ blah blah. Lyin’ through his teeth.”

  “Please, can you describe the robbery incident in your own words, sir? It would help me a lot.”

  “Okay, but I gotta give you some background first, okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  “So here’s the deal,” Tanbry said. “I have a clothing line and retail business in Atlanta. The last four years or so have been really tough. Last year, a Ghanaian friend of mine—I won’t name him—started telling me about some scheme he had to make a lot of money buying and selling gold via an American contact there in Ghana named Granger.”

  “Chuck Granger?”

  “Yeah. You know the guy?”

  “Yes, sir—if it’s the same one. I met him while investigating the murder of the Chinese miner who had a site adjacent to Granger’s.”

  “Oh, right. I saw the Chinese guy a couple times when I went to talk to Granger—didn’t know he got killed. What happened?”

  “He was buried alive in the dirt.”

  “Shit. That’s messed up. It’s like the Wild West out there. Anyway, Granger is the one who was in that crappy reality show in Ghana about small-scale mining. The government kicked him and the crew out after a while.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Yeah, so, my Ghanaian friend is talking about this gold scheme and I’m like, whatever, whatever. Then, back in January, he invites me to a meeting in a hotel with some other guys I didn’t know, and he’s put together this fancy PowerPoint presentation about how this Granger dude has at least half a million dollars worth of gold available for purchase. Get that out of the country and sell it in the right market, I could make a profit of a cool million.”

  “Where can you sell gold for that kind of profit?” Dawson asked. It seemed too good to be true.

  “Dubai,” Tanbry said at once. “The UAE government doesn’t keep track of gold coming in or leaving the country. On the PowerPoint, my friend showed how the gold would be purified in Dubai from about seventy-five percent to ninety-nine point five, and sold for a massive profit.”

  “What about Mr. Granger? Was he included in the scheme?”

  “After the purification, he was supposed to get a kickback, yeah, for sure. My Ghanaian friend explained that if you get a good supplier, you gotta give them a reason to be loyal and keep supplying the stuff.”

  “At this point, are you convinced by the presentation?” Dawson asked.

  “I gotta say, it looked solid at the time, but I was still cautious and wanted to invest only ten thousand and not half a million—just to see how it went. But there’s this Houston oil guy who’s at the meeting as well, and he gets up and says he’s providing the private jet to Ghana and arranging all the customs and immigration stuff, and he’s not putting in those kind of resources for a measly ten thousand. ‘You gotta think big, Beko,’ he says, ‘or don’t think at all.’”

  Dawson’s image of the Houstonian was straight out of the movies: a blustering, stout man in a cowboy hat with a cigar.

  “So they all piled up on me, arguing, persuading me, until I agreed,” Tanbry went on, “but I had to see this gold for myself. Was I gonna trust just any dude with that kind of money? Hell, no. So it meant coming to Ghana. It wouldn’t be my first time. Five years ago I was in Accra looking into real estate, so it’s not like the place was completely strange.

  “Took about six weeks to get everything in place. So I get out to Accra on the private jet, and then to Kumasi, then to Obuasi and Dunkwa and all that, and I meet Granger and I’m thinking I’m gonna buy the gold from him, but no, Granger only wants to do local stuff. He’s got a Ghanaian middleman who does the international. This guy’s name is Mr. Michael.”

  Mr. Michael again, Dawson thought. Who is he?

  “So, I ask Granger how the hell I’ma contact this Michael dude. ‘You don’t,’ Granger says. ‘He’s gonna call you.’ Okay, so I wait a couple hours, and Mr. Michael calls me. Weird voice—creepy as hell. He tells me to head out toward Pakyi, make a left onto an unpaved road just before I get to the village itself, and just keep going till I come to his place. ‘How far out?’ I ask him. ‘Not too far,’ he says, which don’t mean shit in Ghana, sorry to say, Inspector.”

  “Okay, go on,” Dawson urged, ignoring the candid observation.

  “I asked if I could bring an Obuasi gold expert with me to examine the goods, and Michael said okay. When we get there, it’s this big-ass building in the middle of nowhere that looks like a fortress. The dude must be making a ton of money—got a giant generator that runs everything including the AC. He had two armed guards outside who frisked us for weapons, and then one of them took us down a bunch of corridors deep into this mansion till we get to this den. All the furniture there is shiny glass and chrome, floor looks like marble. There’s an armed thug standing guard in the room, and this one little nerdy-looking guy sitting at the desk. So, of course, I think he must be Mr. Michael. I was wrong.”

  “Who was he?” Dawson asked, curious himself.

  “Some damn assistant!” Tanbry exclaimed with a snort. ‘“Where’s Michael?’ I ask. Hell, I didn’t come all this way to meet some assistant. But the assistant, who looks like he’s got ice in his veins instead of blood, says Michael isn’t available, but all the gold is set up and waiting for me according to his instructions.

  “At first I was kinda doubtful, but when they brought out that gold for me to see, damn, it was beautiful, man. The gold expert with me told me it was top-notch and gave it the thumbs-up. So it’s all weighed out and stuff, and the machine counts the cash I brought, and I get my gold.

  “Couldn’t believe how easy it was, man. I had a secret compartment in the ceiling of my SUV, so we put it all in there, but I was nervous. We’d driven about thirty minutes when we came around the corner and an SUV was blocking our way, and these two masked gunmen come out shooting, and I thought, this is it, I’ma get smoked. They make us lie facedown and tied us up, and they start ripping up the SUV looking for gold. Finally they find it and bolt, and I’m half a million dollars poorer, and I don’t have any gold. That pisses me off.”

  “At any time, did you think that the attackers might have been in league with Mr. Michael?” Dawson asked, thinking that it was surely obvious.

  “Are you kidding me?” Tanbry exclaimed. “That’s not even all I thought. I began to suspect the police were in on it as well.”

  Dawson sat up. “Why do you say that?”

  “Look, man, Longdon wasn’t not investigating any of this shit because he was lazy or incompetent. It was because he was in with this Mr. Michael dude. And the little sergeant guy down there who supposedly took the report was probably taking orders from the commander. For all I know, once I’d left, they put my case in the round file.”

  “But do you have any solid proof that Commander Longdon was in league with Mr. Michael?” Dawson asked.

  “I don’t, but maybe someone else does. You ever hear of a journalist called Akua Helmsley?”

  Dawson was startled. “Yes, I have.” He hesitated to tell Tanbry she was dead. “How do you know her?”

  “When I flew out of Ghana, she was in the seat next to me. We struck up a convo, and I told her pretty much everything that had happened to me. She said she’d like to do a story
on it, and so we exchanged numbers. Months passed and I figured she’d forgotten about the whole thing when out of the blue she calls me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three days ago. She said she’d gone to see the commander about the gold scam.”

  Dawson frowned. Longdon hadn’t mentioned Akua’s visiting him three days ago.

  “And then she said she planned to go out to see this Mr. Michael. I’m beggin’ her please, Akua, this is too damn dangerous. I was worried as hell, and I’m praying she’s okay.”

  I have to tell him. “Mr. Tanbry, sir. I’m very sorry to tell you that Akua Helmsley was found dead this morning.”

  He gasped. “No way. No fuckin’ way. Goddammit. Shot, right?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Am I right, or not?”

  “Yes, you are sadly correct. Seems like she was returning on the same route that you were when you were robbed.”

  “Ah, sweet Jesus,” Tanbry whispered. “They killed her straight up, man. They fuckin’ killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Michael, man. Him and his goons. Go get ’em, Inspector. They fuckin’ killed her.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Old devils were creeping back and burrowing under his skin like determined earthworms in the soil after a rain shower. His head knew he was blaming himself too much, but his heart begged to differ.

  He left a note on the desk for Christine and the boys saying he would be back soon. Loathing himself more every passing minute, he got into the jeep and traveled from Melcom Road north to the Asafo Interchange. From there, he made a right, found a spot to park at the edge of Asafo Market, and went in and bought a cap with the Manchester United Football Club logo, and a pair of shades even though it was now dusk. Then, reasonably disguised, he took a walk toward the Neoplan bus station. Just before he got there, he made a sharp left down a narrow lane.

  How did he know this place? He had heard of it, and then it was just a matter of following his nose. No, not the stink of urine in the alley—the other smell, sharp and distinctive and, yes, so familiar. Guys were languishing against the walls of the passageway, which opened up into a covered patio filled with smoke. A least a dozen men were sitting around casually puffing on joints, and fat ones too. A lot bigger than what one generally gets in Accra.

  A guy with a clean-shaven head and built like a fort gave Dawson an up flick of the head, which identified him as the go-to. Dawson asked him about prices and found that wee was cheaper here than in Accra. Darko stood and smoked, daydreaming and floating, his stresses melting away. No good reason to give this herb up, really. Nothing wrong with indulging from time to time.

  He had random thoughts, some of them making him laugh to himself. Like an undecided hummingbird, his mind flitted through a brightly lit field of characters: Bao Liu; his brother, Wei; the American man Chuck, who looked like a school-yard bully; Liu’s wife, delicate Lian; Yaw Okoh and his morose father; Obeng and Commander Longdon . . . Dawson drifted back to Wei and something he had said. What was it? Something that didn’t quite fit. He lost it. It was gone.

  Dawson looked at the joint. Still quite a bit left. It was wonderful, yet he felt sick. He looked to his right and offered the rest of it to a guy who had finished his own but was looking wistful for more. He took it with a mellow smile. “Medaase.”

  He didn’t want to go home smelling of smoke, so Dawson bought a new T-shirt on the way out of Asafo Market and exchanged it for the one he had on, which he handed to a random youngster sitting idly watching the world go by.

  Dawson walked around the streets to clear his head, absorbing the noise of market sellers and blasting loudspeakers, the sight of merchandise in all its unrelated and colorful glory, and the smell of food cooking. He was ravenous, that much he knew. As for the wee smoking, he was neither angry nor pleased with himself. Small wonder, he thought sarcastically. You’re still high. Later, he would be disappointed with himself, and it could mean he would not shake his despondent mood for a few days. You don’t have a few days. He bought some Orbit peppermint gum, went back to the car chewing, got in, and headed back home.

  That evening, after Sly and Hosiah had gone to bed, Christine and Dawson sat together on the sofa. He had refrained from talking about the bad news until now.

  “By the way,” she said, as if reading his mind, “I heard about Miss Helmsley. I’m sorry, Dawson. I know you admired her.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. Yes, I did.”

  She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. “And I owe you an apology for the other night—insinuating that you and her had anything more than a professional relationship. It was foolish talk.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, gently running his fingers through her elaborate weave. “It’s nice to know you still get jealous.”

  She chortled softly. “Yes, but I could do better. What happened, Dark? To Helmsley, I mean.”

  “It was an ambush,” he said. “She and her driver were shot in cold blood at close range.”

  “Oh my goodness. Awful.” She shuddered.

  “If only I had found out where she was going,” he said, “I might have saved her.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know you want to save everyone, but you can’t.”

  “Yeah, so you claim.”

  She raised her head to look at him, and he was grinning. They laughed.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching for the TV remote, “let’s find a movie to watch.”

  Predictably, Christine fell asleep leaning against Dawson about halfway through the action movie, which starred a bunch of actors he had never heard of.

  “Come on, sleep machine,” he said, switching off the TV at the conclusion and shifting her off his shoulder. “Time for bed.”

  He shifted her and she groaned in protest, staggered up, and went sleepily to the bedroom.

  Wednesday morning came and went, and it wasn’t until half past twelve that Commander Longdon called Dawson in for a meeting.

  “The shooting of Miss Helmsley is having widespread repercussions,” he said, folding his fingers together on his desk. “Her father is well-known and quite wealthy, and the Helmsley family are well connected with the British diplomatic corps. As you can imagine, it’s important to handle this at the highest level. I had a meeting with DCOP Manu this morning, and she informed me that she will assign three detectives from Regional Headquarters to the case. In other words, they will be in charge of the investigation from this point on. Our role will be supportive only. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said insincerely. He wasn’t going to passively wait around for these three detectives to get to work.

  “Do you have anything new I should know about?” Longdon asked.

  “Yes, I do, sir,” Dawson said, aware that he had to handle this delicately. “Akua Helmsley mentioned to me that she was writing a story about the rash of armed robberies in the Obuasi area involving gold that foreigners had bought. Did she contact you about the matter at all?”

  “No,” Longdon said, shaking his head. “I have never spoken to the woman.”

  Dawson jumped slightly as he received an electric jolt to his left palm. Why was the commander lying?

  “She didn’t come to see you about four days ago?”

  “Not at all. Why?”

  “I believe that she was ambushed as she was returning from a visit to Mr. Michael, the gold dealer mentioned in Sergeant Obeng’s report,” Dawson said. “What do you know about this man, Michael, sir? Is his business legitimate?”

  “As far as I know, yes. What is your interest in him?”

  “I think he should be questioned in relation to the murder of Helmsley and Samuels. Sir, I know you want Regional to handle everything, but it will take them some time to get up to speed in this case, and time is of the essence. I want to go to Mr.
Michael’s place to question him.”

  “When?”

  “Today. Now.”

  The commander looked uncertain. “I will have to clear it with DCOP Manu, and I will let you know shortly.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. May I check back with you in about an hour?”

  Longdon sighed wearily. “Yes, Dawson. You may.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Constable Asase had done almost a month of driving duty in the past, so he was fit to be at the wheel of the Tata jeep when he and Dawson started out from Obuasi to Pakyi. They got to the now infamous left turnoff and continued on the dusty laterite road. Asase handled the rough ride with ease, dodging cavernous holes and skillfully navigating treacherous muddy patches.

  With more efficiency than Dawson had anticipated, the commander had provided a police jeep for the expedition within three hours, apparently with DCOP Manu’s blessing.

  “Boss, do you know exactly how far it is?” Asase asked.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure,” Dawson replied. “What I do know is that when we see the place, we’ll know it.”

  But the farther they went, the more Dawson was plagued with an unsettling anxiety over the excursion. He shifted restlessly in his seat as they rounded a sharp corner.

  Asase suddenly slowed down. “Sir—”

  A black Toyota 4x4 was parked diagonally across the road.

  Dawson knew at once what was happening. “Shit. It’s a trap. Back up, back up!”

  Asase slammed the jeep into reverse and raced backward. A man in dark clothes and a black mask got out of the Toyota with a pump-action shotgun and began running toward them. He brought the weapon to chest level.

  “Get down, get down!” Dawson said.

  Asase hit the brakes, and they ducked behind the dash as they heard the shotgun go off. But nothing hit their vehicle and no second blast followed. Dawson popped his head up. “He’s running,” he said. “Drive! Get him!”