Ivory

by Tony Park

  George pondered how to best rid himself of Tremain and his men. If the purchase of the De Witt line proceeded as planned, he would need them scoured from the Mozambican coast for purely economic and security reasons. He’d like to think he could trust the local police or the South African or Mozambican navies to do the job, but he doubted their will and ability. Tremain, according to Reardon, had the local police in his pocket.

  Van Zyl wanted to launch a lightning raid on Ilha dos Sonhos, as soon as possible, and kill the members of the gang who were living there. He wanted it done before the South African, Novak, heard about his wife and left the island for Johannesburg, as he inevitably must. Aside from the cost and logistical implications, mounting an invasion of an island posed a high level of risk. What about the islanders who presumably lived there? Would Van Zyl execute every man, woman and child in the hope that he wiped out all of the pirates and their sympathisers? Even on a remote island the massacre of an unknown number of innocents would not go unnoticed. The plan – or lack of it – revealed Van Zyl’s weaknesses, but also his strengths. He was a dog of war, to be pointed in the right direction, but not unleashed until the time was right.

  What George did need right now was more intelligence about the gang and its base. Van Zyl and his men could at least keep watch on Tremain’s lair and its surrounds so that they were in place when the time for action was dictated.

  Tremain was at large somewhere in South Africa, probably in Johannesburg by now, from what Jane had said. Yet another odd thing about Jane’s relationship with the man was why she had left him midway through their trip from Mozambique. When she’d first called, Jane had told George that her ‘Samaritan’ was giving her a lift all the way to Johannesburg, but then she had hitched a lift with some South African fishermen. What had happened, George wondered, to change her mind? According to Jane the man had business of some sort, related to his hotel redevelopment, to attend to in Johannesburg.

  If Tremain learned sooner rather than later of the death of his comrade’s wife he might stay in the city to meet with him and console him, or he might already be on his way back to his island. It didn’t matter either way. Eventually Tremain would return to Ilha dos Sonhos and his criminal ways. If Novak had to be dealt with independently of this crew, then so be it.

  Another unknown would be the reaction of the legitimate authorities to the Penfold Son’s hijacking. With the raid and MacGregor’s death in the news media, the incident had naturally come up in his conversations with Carel de Witt. De Witt, an ex-navy man, had claimed his connections within the senior ranks of the South African National Defence Force were still strong – despite the move to black majority rule – and that if the location of the pirates’ base could be found, then he was sure the South African Navy and police service would despatch a warship and officers to arrest them. He was sure the South African government would gain the necessary approvals from the Mozambican authorities.

  But George didn’t want Tremain and his men arrested. He wanted them dead.

  Carel de Witt had provided a driver and a sleek silver Mercedes to take Jane shopping at Sandton Mall in the afternoon. The preliminary meeting was over and De Witt and his wife were hosting George, Jane, Penny and Robert to a dinner at an expensive French restaurant in Rosebank.

  Jane’s heart wasn’t in the shopping expedition. It rarely was. She wasn’t the sort of girl to get excited over shoes or new clothes. What really irked her, however, was George’s insistence that the company would pay for her evening dress. Her luggage was still in Cape Town, impounded on board the Penfold Son, which the South African police had decided was a crime scene as a result of MacGregor’s murder. It was fair enough that the company compensate her in some way, but she didn’t like being treated as George’s partner or dependant. Even though that was what she might very well become.

  She let the bleached-blonde sales assistant, a friendly woman who plainly lived for her work, pick out a dress for her. She sensed the woman’s keenness had been aided by her ‘money’s no object’ remark. Stuff it, she thought. The whole expedition to Africa had been one nightmare after another.

  ‘Shoes as well?’ the woman queried, unable to contain her excitement.

  ‘Why not?’ Jane shrugged. ‘All I’ve got are flip-flops.’ Carel de Witt had laughed good-naturedly when Jane had shown him her rubber footwear at the commencement of the meeting. She’d explained that she’d bought the first grey business suit she’d seen in Melrose Arch, but had forgotten to buy shoes on her way to the meeting.

  She liked the white-haired shipping owner. He, more than George, seemed not to have lost touch with the sea, despite more years in an office than a ship’s bridge. His face and hands were the colour of teak decking and his blue eyes misted when he talked about the fleet he would soon be losing. His hair was unfashionably long – perhaps a sign of a rebellious nature beneath the constraints of family wealth and business – and he was probably one of the few men she knew who could get away with a ponytail and a business suit. Alex’s hair was almost long enough to need an elastic band.

  Jane checked her watch. There wouldn’t be time to stop by her hotel room and change. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror in the shop. The sales assistant beamed supportively. She climbed into the stiletto heels and turned. There was no way she would have bought a backless dress in London – it was never warm enough to wear one – but she felt different here in Africa. She wondered if her brush with violence and death in the Indian Ocean had somehow changed her.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘And the shoes. Don’t bother wrapping them – I’ll wear them.’

  ‘How late are you for dinner?’

  Jane was surprised at the question, and impatient. ‘If I leave now I’ll get there with about fifteen minutes to spare.’

  ‘Let me call Rudi at the salon two shops up. We can’t send you off to dinner with your hair like that.’

  For a moment Jane felt insulted, but when she took another look in the mirror she burst out laughing. ‘OK.’

  ‘He’s a miracle worker and he owes me big time, hey. A lady can be fifteen minutes late for anything.’

  Jane sat in the chair in the salon, in her new dress and shoes, while Rudi’s assistant washed her hair. She tapped her nails on the plastic arm, but she wasn’t impatient with the stylist. Her mind was churning, replaying the brief discussions she’d had with George in between their interminable round of meetings.

  In her purse was a cheap mobile phone, with a prepaid SIM card, which she’d bought from a shop in the mall. She took it out and scrolled through the call register to ‘dialled numbers’ while the woman rinsed her hair clean.

  The only number in the list was Alex Tremain’s South African mobile. He’d given it to her in Mozambique, before she had run away from him, as she’d needed to pass it on to George, in case he wanted to call her back. She assumed George still had the number and wondered if he might use it to track Alex down. Or if he would give the number to the South African police.

  She’d dialled the number once – before going to try on dresses – but hung up just as it started to ring.

  Alex was a criminal, she told herself. A pirate. No matter how charming or altruistic he might be, or how much he had suffered from the cyclone, he had intimidated and robbed honest people. She should not be tipping him off that her boyfriend knew his identity and was after him.

  ‘All done. Now, if you’d like to take that chair over there,’ the salon assistant said, ‘Rudi will be with you in less than a second.’

  ‘Just a minute, please.’ Jane’s thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button.

  The phone started to vibrate in her hand and she nearly dropped it in fright. A split second later the annoying factory-installed ring tone began its monotonous melody. Jane saw the number flashing on the screen. The assistant waited patiently, looking at her, probably wondering why she wasn’t answering.

  Jane’s heart thumped in her chest. God, what was s
he going to say? The easiest thing would be to let the call go through to the voicemail service she hadn’t even set up yet. Alex wouldn’t even know it was her, and would most likely assume he’d been called by someone who had a wrong number.

  Why had she lied to the man who was now, technically, her fiancé?

  She pressed the green button. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she coughed to clear her throat, ‘Jane speaking.’

  ‘Jane! It’s Alex. I wondered who’d called me. I thought it must have been a wrong number. Where are you? Are you all right? I’ve been worried about you since you ran off in Mozambique. Please tell me you’re safe.’

  He sounded genuinely concerned, and not the least bit angry. His voice was as deep and dark as his skin and hair.

  ‘I’m fine. I . . . I didn’t know whether I should call you or not. I was actually just thinking about it. You’re a mind reader.’ She tried to laugh, but it was impossible to make light of the turmoil in her mind.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What is important is that you’re safe. How are things with your boss?’

  The salon assistant was glancing at her watch and she looked up to see a man in black jeans and T-shirt and streaked hair with hands on hips, doing nothing to conceal his impatience. She ignored him.

  ‘Alex, George . . . George Penfold knows who you are. He’s got a photo of you, Mitch, Novak . . . everyone. He knew all your names and he didn’t believe that you just happened upon me in the Indian Ocean. I tried, but –’

  Alex stopped her, telling her not to worry about what she had or hadn’t said to George. He was more interested in the photo. ‘Jane, slow down. Please. I need you to tell me exactly who was in the photo and where you think it was taken.’

  She took a breath and concentrated. ‘You’re in the centre, at the back. Jose and Kevin are on either side of you and Novak and his wife . . .’

  ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Yes, he and Lisa are in the middle, arm in arm. Mitch is kneeling in the sand, with Henri, Heinrich and Kufa – the picture looks like it was taken in front of your hotel – and there are two white women who I don’t know, kneeling on the right-hand side.’

  ‘Shit,’ Alex said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know whose camera took that photo. We don’t usually take pictures on the island, but it was her fortieth birthday so I made an exception. May God forgive me for my stupidity . . .’

  ‘Alex?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Miss, I’m holding up a regular client for you, as a favour to Isabelle in the Ce Soir boutique. Do you want your hair done or not?’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, hold on!’

  Rudi recoiled in horror and retreated behind the chair he was saving for Jane.

  ‘Alex, what’s wrong? Whose camera was it?’

  ‘The picture was Lisa Novak’s, Jane. She was shot for it. She’s in hospital and might not pull through and another woman, her maid, was killed.’

  Alex almost didn’t recognise Jane.

  He was parked outside the Melrose Arch Hotel, fifty paces from the entry with his lights switched off. The immense African security guard, who wore a long overcoat to hide whatever cannon he carried underneath, had already checked him out and Alex had explained he was waiting to pick up a guest.

  No man could have ignored the elegant woman, dressed in a short black backless evening gown, who stepped out onto the entrance carpet and looked down the street. Her hair was piled high in a French roll, exposing a pale, slender neck. She lifted the cream pashmina to just below her shoulders. When she turned her head Alex, surprised, flashed his headlights and started the engine.

  His breeding and training as an officer and a gentleman would have normally required him to get out of the car, but time and secrecy were more important. The doorman did the honours and Jane slid into the Land Cruiser, looking as out of place in the vehicle as a fine china doll in a wheelbarrow.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as Alex pulled away from the hotel.

  ‘Not far. What did you tell George?’

  ‘Not that it’s your business, but I told him I’ve got a headache, which is actually quite true. If he calls my room I’ll tell him I went out to get some aspirin.’

  ‘In Johannesburg at night?’ He let it ride. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, Alex, or why I’m doing it, so please don’t thank me for anything. I’d much rather just have my old life back.’

  He wondered what she meant by that, and if the remark was aimed at him or Penfold.

  ‘How’s Lisa?’ she asked.

  ‘Still unconscious. Novak got in from Mozambique this afternoon and I took him to Johannesburg Hospital. How are you?’

  ‘George asked me to marry him, and I said yes.’

  Alex nodded, slowly, digesting the information.

  ‘Of course I didn’t tell him about . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. It was just a kiss. Look, Jane, I wanted to see you to warn you to be careful. I know I planted the seed in your mind that George might have been up to something illegal, but I think now that you should forget all I said and not ask any questions you might not want to know the answer to.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer, Alex. And I’m not some bloody airhead bimbo who’ll be content to be the silent, dutiful wife. For fuck’s sake, I could be disbarred for not paying my speeding fines. If my future husband is smuggling drugs or diamonds or whatever out of Africa then I bloody well need to know.’

  She needed to vent and he decided to stay silent. Drugs or diamonds, she’d said. That was interesting, he thought. Did she not know either what was in the package Captain MacGregor had given her? If, in fact, he’d given her anything at all.

  ‘And I don’t need a bloody pirate telling me what questions I should and shouldn’t be asking.’ She slumped into the car seat, raised her fingers to the bridge of her nose and squeezed. ‘How’s Novak?’

  Alex shrugged. He indicated, turned a corner and started hunting for a parking spot. It was after eleven, but the cafes and bars of the business enclave were still doing good business. ‘He’s a soldier, but she’s the love of his life. You don’t see a lot of marriages survive in our business. They’re looking forward to retiring early in Mozambique. His one daughter was in Namibia on holiday with her husband. Novak called her and he’s staying at her place tonight. He’s calm and quiet, which means he probably wants to kill whoever did it.’

  ‘It could have been random,’ she suggested without conviction. ‘It is Johannesburg after all.’

  Alex waited for an Audi to reverse, then claimed the car’s spot. ‘I’ve only ever seen that picture of all of us on Novak’s laptop – it was his screensaver – and on Lisa’s camera the day it was taken. We have a strict no-camera, no-photo policy on the island – we like to protect our identities. I was drunk the day the picture was taken and I made Lisa swear she would keep the picture to herself.’

  ‘Who were the other women in the picture?’ Jane asked.

  Alex had opened his door and was already walking around to open Jane’s, though she beat him to it. ‘They stayed with us a while. An Australian and an Irishwoman. They wouldn’t have had copies.’

  Jane got out of the truck and let him close the door for her. He pressed the alarm remote. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Alex. George has got your phone number – he even knows your name. If he suspected that you were the man who attacked the Penfold Son he could have tracked you down easily and had you investigated. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell him, then?’

  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to him. ‘No, I didn’t. And I don’t bloody well know why I didn’t.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She frowned at him. ‘Oh, all right. I hardly touched a drop during dinner.’

  Alex placed a hand gently on her arm to steer her towards a wine bar. She didn’t protest or shrug him off. Her skin
was cool and smooth, and pale like marble.

  ‘The chardonnay’s good,’ he said, scanning the wine list at the bar, where they took high-backed stools.

  ‘Sauvignon blanc, please,’ she said to the waiter.

  ‘Make it two,’ Alex said.

  ‘He knows who you are, Alex, and he’s going to get you. I’ve never seen him so determined, so focused, so seething with quiet rage.’

  Alex thanked the waiter and raised his glass to hers. She did the same, looking puzzled. ‘What are we toasting?’

  ‘Life?’ He shrugged. ‘Lisa.’

  ‘May she recover.’

  Alex drank some of his wine. He would stick to one glass, as there was still a long night ahead of him, and an even longer drive back to Mozambique once he’d finished his shopping. There was no way he could fly back to the island with what he needed to buy in South Africa.

  ‘You think George paid someone to rob Lisa – to shoot her?’ Jane said.

  ‘Perhaps she resisted – stumbled upon the robbers and tried to fight them,’ Alex said. ‘She’s feisty, so I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  ‘Van Zyl,’ Jane said, as if thinking aloud.

  ‘Who?’

  She explained to him that Piet van Zyl was the head of the security detachment on board the Penfold Son.

  ‘Those guys were pros,’ Alex said, remembering the disciplined gunfire that had foiled his attack.

  ‘George is furious at him – at all of them – for losing . . . for losing me.’

  Alex raised an eyebrow, but Jane stayed silent, not wanting to elaborate on what she had let slip.

  ‘Why? They saved his ship.’

  She shrugged, not rising to the bait. ‘All I know is he blames them for losing me and for allowing his precious ship to be damaged. There’s a lot riding on this South African deal for Penfold Shipping. If he succeeds in buying De Witt’s – that’s the company we’re trying to buy – he’ll have to put you out of business. De Witt himself says he can get the South African Navy to come after you.’

  ‘Sounds like the posturing of two negotiators to me,’ Alex said.