Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 01

by Predators

  Telling Bobby Griswold about the IPO had been a stroke of genius. When Farrah found out, and he was sure the idiot boy would let it slip eventually, it would give Farrah a double duck fit. The greedy bastard would then have to square it with his new friends, his “partners,” the guys who wanted to take over the company, and then, who knew what the SEC would do if they found even the hint of possible insider trading? Farrah should have taken the early retirement offer, the proverbial “golden parachute,” when he had the chance, but apparently he couldn’t resist the thought of a big payoff. Now, he could end up with nothing. Served him right, the disloyal son of a bitch.

  Leo swiveled around to contemplate an angry Lake Michigan again. Clouds piled in from the north. Waves crashed against the seawall, where some of the spume began to freeze. What, he wondered, should he do about Travis Parizzi? If only the guy would learn patience. Leo liked Travis; well, not liked, exactly, Leo didn’t dare to like anyone, but he recognized talent when he saw it, and Travis had it. He had what it took to step in as his successor. The company needed an insider to finish the projects currently on the table. Travis could do it. A new management team, AMG Partners, Freeport McMoran, the group that bought out Phelps-Dodge or, whoever else might be in play, would take too long to settle in, and the process would engender too much infighting. The moment would be lost. Continuity was the answer. And then there was the real estate division, soon to be a spinoff if everything went as he hoped. It needed capital, though. Leo wondered if he’d be better off sharing his plans with Travis.

  Perhaps, he thought, in Africa they’d have a chance to talk.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kgbo Modise waved his hand at the second-hand smoke drifting in his window. It was summer in Gaborone, the windows open, and on the whole he’d much rather be somewhere else having a cool drink and admiring the young girls bustling about their business. Instead, he reread the thick file in front of him. There were two parts: a cursory and not very helpful summary from Interpol and several older, more detailed documents from the predecessor agencies of the Directorate of Intelligence and Security, the DIS. Yuri Greshenko had had his fingers in many pies in his day.

  Modise thought all those old apparatchiks were gone and forgotten, whiling away the time in their dachas with pensions or shaking down the new generations of capitalists in the mother country. But now this one turns up like a counterfeit thebe to disturb his day. Back when Botswana was in its infancy and all the major players were attempting to establish hegemony on the continent, Greshenko and people like him were busy. They were part of the back channel creating the uneasy triumvirate of the DeBeers, Russia, and Botswana cartel, which would exert control over most of the world’s kimberlitic diamonds. Efforts to break the cartel by the CIA, Zaire, Australia, and some other players, had occupied Modise’s predecessors for years.

  So, what was this aging Russian operative up to now? And how did he fit in with Earth Global? His acquaintance with Botlhokwa worried his boss. The government was eager for Earth Global to come and invest but was understandably chary of Yuri Greshenko. His past was problematic.

  ***

  When Sanderson arrived back at the station, Mr. Pako, puffed with the newfound importance his imminent promotion gave him, called her into his office.

  He stared at her rudely. He often did that. Sanderson thought he was a dirty old man. He had once had asked her for sexual favors. She had fended him off by reminding him of her late husband and that he had died of AIDS and perhaps she too…She did not need to finish the thought. Mr. Pako quickly changed the subject, but he was never polite to her again.

  “I have been on the line with the headman in Kazungula and he wishes that this lion which has taken that boy from Zimbabwe be found and shot. In this, the managers of the lodges agree. It is bad for business if the guests have to worry about a killer lion. You must see to this.”

  He assumed she would not be able to comply, as he believed, along with Police Superintendent Mwambe, that a woman could not operate a firearm, much less shoot down a four-hundred-kilo lion. He looked extremely smug when he gave her this order.

  In truth, Sanderson agreed with him. She did know how to load and fire the rifle. And in years past, had had some success hitting targets with similar pieces. Her late husband, before he took to visiting that woman in the village who had infected him, had shared this skill and many other happy times with her. But shooting targets under the watchful eye of the police and hunting a lion were very different things.

  She asked if tranquilizing the animal and relocating it would not be a better idea. He scowled at her in a way that clearly indicated he considered any suggestion that contradicted his orders a great affront. He brushed the notion of tranquillizing away with his hand.

  “No, it must be killed. It has tasted human blood. It will be a man-eater from now on. It must be removed.”

  Mr. Pako authorized the use of the old Land Rover, but only during the day. She must return it every evening, he said. She also received a note to draw ammunition. How she was to track this lion, which had tasted human blood, and kill it he did not make clear. Mr. Pako’s desire to see her fail and perhaps be mauled by that lion in the bargain was eminently clear.

  She would not give him that pleasure. How she would complete this duty, however, seemed less certain. She would ask in the village. The old men would know. They had once hunted ditau, the lions, in their youth, and the older men without firearms but with spears. They would know what to do. However, she could not be sure they would share that knowledge with a woman, with her. Perhaps, she thought, she could recruit them to do the hunting. That would make it all right. They would like to do that. Hunting the ditau had been taken from them years before. How could a boy grow up to manhood, they asked, if he cannot hunt the lions?

  Becoming a game ranger had been her ambition since she was very small. It had not been easy to pass the tests and wait for an opening. But she had done it and all the Pakos in the world were not going to take it away from her. She nodded her acquiescence. Mr. Pako smiled, confident of her inevitable failure, and then, with a superior smirk, told her he had been transferred to Maun. It was, he declared, a promotion. He would leave at the end of the week. Much to his amazement, she congratulated him profusely.

  Her luck had changed.

  ***

  By late afternoon, Sekoa had traveled five more kilometers and needed a place to rest. The river seemed a long ways away. To his right he heard the rustle of feathers. He crouched and managed to flush a guinea fowl from its nest. He couldn’t bring down the bird, and the hatchlings darted away from him. He chased them for a few yards and then stopped, exhausted. A pack of hyenas trotted out of the bush and stopped a few meters away. With lunatic eyes, they contemplated their traditional enemy, measuring his strength. A rush of adrenalin enabled him to stand, tall and whole. He opened his jaws wide, yawned, let out a low growl, and feinted toward them, claws extended. The hyenas backed away, hesitated. A small herd of Thompson’s Gazelles minced across an open area behind them. The hyenas, long incorrectly thought to be mere scavengers, wheeled and gave chase, disappearing in a cloud of dust. The lion trotted after them. If they missed, but crippled one, he might eat again. Perhaps, if they parted and fed separately, he could intimidate one of them into giving up the kill. If his pride were with him, he could do that. But he had no females anymore.

  He trotted on. He could smell fear. A small, very young impala, a “lion snack,” they would say of it at the Safari Lodge, bolted into his path. It did not expect a lion to be hunting so close to hyenas and, with panicked eyes rolled back at its pursuers, bounded directly at him. He swatted it down with one paw and clamped his jaws on the poor beast’s neck. Sekoa would eat. It amounted to no more than a few mouthfuls, but he would live another day.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Gulfstream V powered smoothly to a gentle landing in Gaborone. “Wheels down at 15:43,” the pilot announced. “Your car is waiting for you outside the termin
al, Mr. Painter. As soon as you clear customs, it can take you to your hotel. The tower states there is a greeting party that will meet you at the door.”

  Leo Painter released his seatbelt buckle even though the plane continued to taxi. He signaled for Yuri Greshenko to join him. Greshenko hesitated, looked at the flight attendant who shrugged her shoulders. Apparently she had grown accustomed to Leo’s perversity. Greshenko shook his head and slid into the aisle and made his way forward. He lowered his bulky frame into the seat opposite Leo. In his day, Greshenko could have played outside linebacker for the Chicago Bears. If Leo were forty years younger and forty pounds lighter, he might have played in the middle on the same team. Leo handed him a fat envelope.

  “As soon as you clear customs, contact your people and then get up to Kasane and look around. I want to be sure this deal will fly. There’s a guy up there named something like Ray Bolly-hock-wa. Check in with him, but I don’t want to use him unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “It’s pronounced rah…Rra Botlhokwa.” Greshenko rolled his R’s with practiced precision. “In English it means Mr. Important, or something like you would say in America, Big Shot or Mr. Big.”

  “Interesting. I hired you because a mutual friend said you knew things about this country. Apparently that was an understatement. How did you know that, the Mr. Big Shot thing?”

  “Years ago when I was younger, you understand, we, the USSR we were then, had certain interests in Africa, this country in particular. We knew it had mineral wealth, particularly diamonds. It would be a major player in the diamond world with us and DeBeers. The kimberlitic diamonds here and in Siberia would form a cartel that…well you can see how that would play out. Diamonds would be many, is that the word? They would be plentiful and controlling the price and distribution important, yes? And we were interested in their nickel and copper mines, of course. Also there were political considerations that…well, anyway, I served here as commercial attaché. I knew Botlhokwa then.”

  “Commercial attaché? As in…you were a spy? KGB?”

  Greshenko shrugged. “There are attachés and there are attachés, you understand. I was sent to southern Africa as part of the interests we had here. I spent some time in Zambia, Johannesburg, Mozambique…around. Botswana found her diamonds after Independence.” He shrugged again and smiled. “In Botswana, all rights of ownership of minerals are vested in the state, irrespective of the district or region in which they are found. Any individuals or companies wishing to obtain a prospecting license must apply to the Minister of Minerals, Energy, and Water Resources. That gives the minister the responsibility for natural resource regulation and management. And, so they also managed to keep the minerals for themselves. We were all shut out.” Greshenko frowned.

  “Wait a minute, you know this guy Rah Whatever, Mr. Big?”

  “Knew, Mr. Painter. I knew him when, as you say, he was a player. A very interesting man, Botlhokwa, one of the few recipients of the Bechuanaland Protectorate Scholarships to Oxford. Would have been a classmate, you could say, of presidents, leaders, both in Botswana and surrounding countries. He turned his back on government and went into business. I don’t know what he went into after that. But I will find out. The last I heard of him he’d moved into some shady areas. But he has hotels and casinos here and there. He should be happy to see us, if he wants to recapture his respectability.”

  “Well, that’s your bailiwick, I think. Back to the Russians. Your people are active here, it seems. You bought ActiVox, and it’s being used here, in Botswana. So you won after all.”

  “Not won—prevailed, I think would be a better description. And that process is on the back burner, as you Americans would say. Because of the global economic meltdown, the sale of the raw materials in Botswana has dropped precipitously, leaving the economy a little shaky. The mines in particular are in financial trouble and have struggled to pay their employees. The country needs help from institutions like the African Development Bank.”

  “A good time to invest, or not?”

  Greshenko shrugged as if he had closed the book on that part of his history. “You’re the minerals expert, it’s your call, Mr. Painter. Capitalism is not quite my line of country.” He tilted his head at Travis Parizzi. Leo glanced in Travis’ direction and shook his head.

  “Travis? No, he doesn’t know. I’ll fill him in when the right moment comes. In the meantime…well, I don’t need to tell you, discretion, Greshenko. This may be a developing country with more goats than flush toilets, but they’re as shrewd as snakes—”

  “And innocent as doves?” Greshenko finished for him. Leo’s eyebrows shot up. He had been raised by fundamentalist Christian grandparents. The only residue of that rigorous and often painful upbringing was his ability to quote occasional bits of scripture. That Greshenko recognized and could complete the passage from Matthew on top of the Botswana connection came as complete surprise.

  “Jury is out on the dove bit. Word in Washington is the pols here, unlike those in my beloved Chicago, are incorruptible. We’ll have to see about that, but in the interim, be careful. We don’t want to be seen as the wolves.”

  Russians never ceased to amaze him. He guessed he did not have Greshenko’s story, not all of it at any rate, and possibly never would. He wished he were younger. What he, what Earth Global could have done in that vast country with men like Greshenko! Hell, the man even had a better grasp of English than 90 percent of the dolts who worked for him.

  The plane lurched to a halt. A minute later, the pilot had the door open and steps down. Leo Painter and his party descended onto the taxiway to be greeted by two officials who steered him and his party through customs and on to their hotel. They set the time for the appointments with the minister of Mineral, Energy, and Water Resources, BEDIA, and a handful of other functionaries. The purported purpose of Leo’s visit had begun. In the confusion of off-loading baggage and passengers, Yuri Greshenko slipped through customs to a waiting SUV. He did not notice the official-looking car at the curb behind him.

  Kgabo Modise had been waiting. He’d watched the sleek corporate jet touch down and disgorge its passengers. His eyes, however, were focused entirely on the man whose picture was clipped to the folder on the seat beside him.

  No one noticed Greshenko’s departure except Modise, who started his car followed a discreet distance.

  CHAPTER 9

  Henry Farrah was not part of the official meeting-and-greeting taking place in the hotel’s ballroom. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even know why Leo had brought him along. But knowing Leo as he did, he knew there would be a reason forthcoming and he would find out soon enough. He wandered into the hotel bar and, turning his back on the three or four other patrons perched on stools near him, began punching numbers on his cell phone. There would be a seven-hour difference between New York and Gaborone, eight to Chicago. He needed to know if the SEC had tumbled to the leak; he needed to know what his partners knew or were prepared to do if it had. He was in as close to a state of panic as ever in his life.

  As in a European pub, his order for whiskey translated to Scotch. Henry didn’t like Scotch. His ulcer positively rebelled at Scotch. He signaled to the bar tender.

  “Sir, something wrong with your drink?”

  “Take it away and bring me a beer.”

  “Certainly. What brand would you like?”

  “I don’t care…a local beer, then.”

  The bartender retreated, returned, and placed a can of Saint Louis beer and a glass on a napkin in front of Henry.

  “I asked for a local beer.”

  “Yes, sir. This is local beer.”

  “Saint Louis is local? What’s the name of the others? San Francisco, Duluth? Old Milwaukee is taken, I’m afraid.”

  The barman only looked at him and nodded agreeably.

  He signaled for the bartender to pour the beer and turned his attention back to his phone.

  The call to his contact in New York was inconclusive. The m
an in the SEC either did not know, was not in the loop, or had decided to dummy up. Farrah cursed and pulled out his notebook. It had been a present from his wife two Christmases ago. Just before she’d left him and moved in with her tennis instructor. That hadn’t lasted. Cougars can’t hold on to their prey very long, it seems. She’d asked him to take her back. He’d refused and now she lived with his daughter in tight-lipped silence in Winnetka.

  He jotted a few notes in his pocket memo—he’d never been able to master the Blackberry he’d been issued. He had his secretary keep it up to date in case Leo ever asked. His secretary hadn’t traveled with him so he reverted to his pocket notebook. Besides, the notes he was keeping at the moment would not be the sort of information he’d want in the Blackberry anyway. He didn’t know the extent to which that device could be accessed remotely, but he’d become convinced that Leo had somehow managed it in order to spy on his employees. Why else would he have issued such an expensive perquisite? What finally appeared in Henry’s Blackberry files were the innocuous details about items everyone knew.

  He clicked off and drummed his fingers on the polished bar. A second call confirmed the first. Either the SEC knew nothing, knew but saw no cause for concern, or his contacts weren’t as tight with the commission as he’d been led to believe. Henry scowled and dialed Chicago.

  The investor consortium he’d assembled and in which he’d been promised a substantial equity share based on his insider position were understandably skittish. They hadn’t heard anything and were less than pleased to hear there might be a leak. Since his future depended entirely on the IPO going through, they said, he’d better put a lid on the rumor immediately. Easier said than done. Perhaps he should have another talk with Brenda Griswold. He wrinkled up his nose at the thought. Like so many of his social class, he held people like Brenda in disdain—being a predator in the market place was somehow classier than being one on the streets.