by Arno Joubert
Callahan clicked on an icon, scanning through the online statement.
“The funds were transferred to an account referenced as 'Cuspis Dei’”, he said and slapped the arm of the sofa. He breathed in deeply. “Any ideas?”
“No, how could this—”
Realization dawned. “Bryden. Allen.” He swallowed. “Who was the girl with them?”
Perreira hesitated. “We don’t know, we’re still trying to trace her.”
“I need to think,” he said and disconnected the call. He dropped the phone in his lap. “Shit!”
He grabbed the phone and dialed a number.
A groggy voice answered. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Callahan. I have a crisis. Bryden stole all our money. It's gone,” he said, his voice quivering.
“I know,” the voice answered. “I have some of it in my personal account.” The voice went quiet. “Don’t phone me on this damn line, we’re being traced, you idiot. I’ll get in touch soon,” Neil Allen said, and then the call disconnected with a click.
“Allen, Allen, you better—” he shouted and looked at his phone in disbelief. “Dammit!” He threw it at the wall with all his might, shattering it into a hundred pieces.
He cupped his face with his hands, breathing deeply. He stood and poured himself a stiff drink then leaned against his desk. A bead of sweat formed on his eyebrow and meandered down his nose. He slammed the glass on the table, spilling the amber liquid over his expensive pants. He ignored it, staring blankly at the wall.
“Shit.”
Alexa scanned the notebook then tried the third password. It worked, and she logged into Neil’s cell phone company internet portal. She had found the passwords in Neil’s wallet; he had scribbled them all on a piece of paper in a tidy cursive. She duly copied them all.
She didn’t find anything else except for a black-and-white photo of Neil with a toddler on his lap. Probably his daughter.
She flipped through the pages on the browser and did a lookup on his call history. Within a couple of seconds she noticed the pattern.
Fifteen phone calls had been made to his phone from the same number during the past eight hours. The number looked familiar. She fished Laiveaux’s report from the envelope on her desk, flipped through the pages, and found the right one, then she scanned the contents with her finger to the detail she was searching for.
She compared the two numbers, shaking her head in disbelief. It belonged to Owen Callahan. Why would he be calling Neil?
The cell phone record indicated the calls had been made from a roaming location, outside of the normal network’s coverage area. It had a cellular provider code next to the number. Alexa typed a quick search into her browser and found the cellular provider the code was referring to.
Both men were in Israel. At the same time, on the same day. Her face heated as the anger surged through her body. She sucked in angry breaths through her nose.
The bastard. Neil Allen was going down.
Alexa glanced at the message on her cell. It contained Perreira's updated location. He was back in Maputo. Good. She needed him to be home. She deleted the message and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
Alexa looked up, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, and smiled an apology. “Sorry about that, Mr. Lobera. I’m expecting an urgent message regarding my shipment.”
Ebbe Lobera nodded conspiratorially. “Business is business.” He was a short, dark guy with moles on his cheeks, probably in his mid-forties. He wore a brown suit and had a solid gold chain around his neck.
Alexa shift din her chair. “How much would your services cost?" she asked sitting back. “You have come highly recommended.”
Lobera shrugged his shoulders, his palms facing upwards and out to his side. He looked like a Bollywood dancer. ”It depends on what you need done.” He sat back, contemplating his answer for a second, doing the math in his head. “The basic service costs two thousand meticais,” he said with a lisp, an expensive-looking watch dangling from his wrist as he spoke.
He had doubled the price. He was getting greedy.
“And the car won't be searched at all?"
“Coming in, no. Going out is more; I need to pay the South Africans in rands."
“How much?”
He swiveled back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, thumb-sucking another price. “Five thousand rand,” he said.
He was bullshitting. He had added two hundred dollars to the standard fare. That was OK; she needed him for a couple more days.
“OK, that’s fine,” Alexa said. “I pay you directly?”
Lobera beamed and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over an ample stomach. “Yes, I'll take care of the rest.”
Alexa smiled and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
Lobera leaned forward and shook her hand with vigour, a wide grin on his face. “Good. Very good.”
He probably thinks I’m a pushover.
Alexa looked around his compact office. “How does a girl get something to drink around here? We should celebrate.”
“Coffee?” he asked. “Unfortunately, I don’t have anything stronger.”
Alexa nodded. “Perfect. Black, no sugar, thanks.”
He trotted out of the room.
She grabbed her chair and pushed it against his table, climbed on top, and inspected the ceiling board. It had been stained green and brown by years of rain damage. She removed a short nail from her pocket and punched a hole through the board, then she pushed a wireless receiver through the hole and attached a tiny camera to the receiver. She covered the opening with a blob of window putty, and rubbed the camera lens clean with her thumb.
She jumped down, cleaned her boot marks from the table, and dusted her seat. She inspected her work. The camera looked like a coffee stain on a dirty page. Satisfied, she sauntered through the office, inspecting photographs and certificates on Lobera’s wall.
He had rubbed shoulders with high-ranking officials from both the Mozambican and South African governments. The wall contained more than a dozen pictures of him shaking hands with generals, politicians, and even a South African soap-opera star. She shuffled through a pack of folders on his desk. It appeared to be police dockets, filled with photos and pages of typed writing. Alexa stacked them and sat down as someone approached. Lobera entered the room carrying two plastic cups.
“Black and strong?” he asked, handing her a cup.
Alexa nodded and sniffed the brew. It smelled weak. She took a sip. The brown liquid was tepid and grainy and bitter.
“Mozambican espresso, good stuff,” Alexa said, trying to hide the disgust on her face.
Lobera beamed. “Alas, all I could procure was Nescafé, all the way from a local supermarket. But I appreciate the compliment.”
Alexa gulped the cup down, suppressing the need to gag. She pulled a roll of notes from her pocket and counted out eight one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Dollars OK?” she asked and handed him the cash.
He counted the money then looked at her with a curious frown, holding the dollar bills in the air.
“I’ve included a tip for you,” she said. “You have been most helpful.”
Lobera beamed a sparkling, white-toothed grin. “Obrigado, senhorita.”
“I hope we have a long and prosperous relationship, Mr. Lobera.” She placed the half-filled cup on his table. “Thanks for the coffee."
Lobera sauntered towards her. “Thank you, senhorita. I hope to talk soon.”
He shook her hand but didn’t let go. “What are you, ahem, transporting, if I may ask?”
Alexa pondered the question. “If you must know, I'm bringing in porn and cigarettes."
Lobera nodded sagely. “Good business. Very good.” He gazed at Alexa with an affectionate smile then released her hand.
Alex nodded and turned around. “Pig,” she muttered under her breath as she left the room.
Alexa settled into the wicker chair in her comfortable suite at th
e Polana hotel. She folded her legs beneath her then flipped open her laptop and connected a flash drive. She opened a browser and typed in the private address to the camera.
She clicked a link on the page and scanned through the list of recordings, scrolled to the bottom of the list, and opened the first video stream.
A man had entered the room as she left Lobera’s office earlier. Alexa remembered him; he wore a Mozambican police uniform. He asked Lobera about the cute Lolita then went on to make some snide sexual remarks. They both chuckled.
Alexa forwarded the conversation ten seconds ahead. Lobera called the policeman “Sharkie.” She pricked her ears at the next piece of the recording. Lobera and the newcomer discussed her shipment, which was due to arrive at the border the following week.
Sharkie was interested in getting his hands on some of Alexa’s illegal goods. A heated exchange followed, and Lobera convinced Sharkie to keep his hands off the stuff. Lobera explained she would become a regular customer and it would be foolish to kill the goose laying the golden eggs. Alexa forwarded some more. The men left the office. Lunch. Lobera returned two hours later.
Lobera’s phone rang and he picked up. Alexa listened attentively, forwarding and rewinding the stream, listening to some of the conversations for a second or third time, trying to put a context to the discussion, then jotted some notes on a pad next to the laptop.
She was satisfied only three other people were involved in the smuggling ring. A sergeant called Malan on the South African side of the border, Sharkie, and Lobera.
Perreira's name was mentioned several times. She gathered a valuable shipment was on its way from Malawi, due to be processed the following day. It then needed to be transferred to a cargo ship and make its way to the final destination in the States.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and punched in a number. She would need some help on this mission.
“Bonjour, Général. This is Alexa.”
“Alexa, my dear girl. Ça va?” the general greeted, sounding happy.
“Ça va, bien merci. I need your help again, General.”
“Tell me.”
Alexa outlined her plan to the general.
“It could work,” the general answered. “Whoever opens it deserves what they get, I guess.”
“One more thing, General. A container is on its way from Malawi heading towards the USA.” She read out the container number to the general. “Would it be possible to intercept it? I’m sure it contains contraband or something illegal.”
Laiveaux sounded interested. “Are you certain, Captain?”
“One hundred percent, General. They’re making special arrangements to get it out of the country without going through customs. No searches, no sniffer dogs. It seems important.”
“We have a couple of boats patrolling the area.” He went quiet for a moment as Alexa heard him shuffle through some papers. “These types of interceptions are difficult; you have to do it in international waters.”
“I understand, General.”
“You still at the Polana?”
“Yes, General.”
“Very well then,” he said. ”You’ll have the package by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, General.”
“Alexa,” the General said hesitantly.
“General?”
“Be careful, my girl.”
Alexa smiled. “I will, General.” She pulled off her jeans and folded them, placing them on the bed. “Thanks.”
“Good-bye, Captain.”
Alexa disconnected the call, tossed the phone on the bed, then ambled to the bathroom. She had planned to have an early evening, but she had met a cute Australian guy at the bar. They had a dinner date at eight.
Alexa fumbled for the phone as it rang on the nightstand. After a couple of attempts, she managed to put it to her ear.
“Miss Johnson? This is Albert at reception. I have a gentleman with a package down here. He refuses to leave it behind. He says that you need to sign for it personally.”
Alexa yawned. “What time is it?”
“It is exactly seven o’ clock in the morning, mademoiselle.”
“OK, tell him I’ll be there in five minutes,” she said and slammed the phone down.
A man groaned next to her. “Bloody Martha, my head aches.”
Alexa tried to remember the guy’s name as she ripped the duvet off the bed and grabbed him by his arm. “Get up, you need to get out,” she said, pushing him towards the door.
“But wait, my clothes,” the man said, peering back over his shoulder.
She grabbed his clothes from the floor and pushed him out the doorway, tossing them on the ground in the passageway. She closed the door.
“My shoes.”
She trotted back and found them next to the bed and tossed them into the passageway as well.
The man pulled on his pants as he scanned the corridor. “Veronica, last night was great, did I do anything wrong?”
“Yes, I needed a magnifying glass to find your dick.” She slammed the door shut.
She stood with her back to the door for a couple of seconds, breathing deeply. Last night hadn’t been lousy at all, not by any standards. She just found it best to cut any emotional bonds before they started. It cut down on the drawn-out good-byes.
Alexa pulled on a jeans and a floral blouse and peeked out the door, scanning the corridor. He wasn’t there. She hurried downstairs, passing the bar on her way to the hotel foyer. The guy she was with last night was already there, sipping on a cocktail and looking sorry for himself.
She hurried to the foyer and was pleasantly surprised. “Voelkner, what are you doing here?”
Voelkner stood straight and saluted. “Captain.”
She grabbed him around his neck and hugged him. “It’s good to see you, Lieutenant,” she said.
Voelkner stood to attention, looking uncomfortable.
“So, I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”
He held out a brown package, the size of a shoebox. “I brought you this.”
She took it from him.
“Careful. Remember the Med?”
Alexa nodded. She remembered. “Big bang,” she said and winked. “It’s good to see you, Voelkner. You’re staying for a couple of days?”
He fidgeted with the seam of his pants. “Not exactly. Laiveaux told me to look after you until all of this is over.”
Alexa put her hand on her hip, irritated. Why did the general always think she needed a damn bodyguard? She would probably end up saving him again. “What? I don’t need a damn babysitter. Why you? You have your own bloody platoon to babysit.”
“I volunteered. And Latorre is here as well,” he said, an amused twinkle in his eyes.
Alexa sighed. “You might as well stay a couple of days, but then you leave. That is an order.”
Voelkner shook his head. “Sorry, Captain; our orders overrule your orders. Remember, you still serve your country and the Legion.”
Alexa stomped her foot on the ground. “Uuurgh,” she shouted, holding her hands stiffly in front of her, trying to regain her composure.
Voelkner stood there, grinning.
Alexa swiveled on her heel. “I need some coffee.”
Customs Officer Sharkie Sheik inspected the brown, shoebox-sized cardboard box in his hand. He tried to open the lid, but it had been taped shut. How much porn could be in a box this size? He shook the package and heard a couple of loose objects inside. Probably some CDs or memory sticks.
The package was addressed to Miguel Perreira; a name familiar to him. A good customer. He decided against fiddling with the man’s mail, then he stuck a sticker to the lid which read “Inspected and Approved.”
He tossed the box into the “Out” tray.
Danny Costas, Perreira’s accountant, tore open the cardboard box addressed to Perreira, as he did with all of his boss’ mail. He removed the girly magazines, interested. He paged through them and flipped to the center page of one, held
it up, and whistled appreciatively.
Perreira is getting some good stuff.
It had been the second package this week. A red envelope was buried at the bottom of the cardboard box. He pulled it up with the long fingernail on his pinky and pulled it out. It contained something lumpy and square. He tore open the envelope and removed a tin. It had a picture of a yellow smiley face stuck to the lid. He wedged the lid off with a nicotine-stained fingernail. The top sprang free.
Costas flipped it open, breaking a thin copper wire. In turn, a transistor lost the electric load in its circuit, which set off the mercury-fulminate fuse. It hissed and Costas dropped the container on the table in surprise.
Before the box made contact with the surface of the table, the fuse lit the four grams of nitroglycerine wrapped in a straw. A massive explosion shook the room.
Callahan paced around his library, cradling a minute silver cell phone to his ear. Perreira was starting to get on his nerves.
“I need more money to get more people onto Bryden.” Perreira sounded like a kid begging for candy.
Callahan shook his head. “We don't have any more funds. When is the shipment’s payment coming through?” he asked irritably.
“When the container’s been processed.”
“Then you'll have to wait,” Callahan said bluntly.
“I cannot. I need professionals. Bryden is killing me down here. He murdered my accountant. You must phone Metcalfe, today.”
Callahan sighed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said and disconnected the call.
He dialed a number, and the call was answered after three rings. “Perreira needs help; he's not thinking straight.”
“What do you need?” Metcalfe asked.
“A professional.”
“I’ll get on it,” Metcalfe answered and disconnected the call.
Alexa twisted her hair through an elastic hair band and into a ponytail. She sauntered to the window and parted the drawn curtain an inch, peering out. The divers were assembling at the pool.
