Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  Chester lifted his chin toward the cooler on the right. “Looks like Kruger. Peter Kruger. Winfield’s chief of security. Him, I liked better than Winfield.”

  You would, thought Bourne, who now recognized Kruger. Good at his job, but despicable generally. While South Africa’s apartheid was still in full flower, Kruger had been a Johannesburg jailer, fond of strangling black prisoners and then stringing them up so that their deaths would appear to be suicides. He’d later joined VaalChem, then based in South Africa. The firm was central to a project, later revealed, of using germs to sicken whole Bantu communities that were centers of revolt against apartheid. That ended when Nelson Mandela was freed. When Mandela came to power, he shut VaalChem down. Bourne then bought it for a song and moved the plant to Angola. Kruger managed to tag along with it.

  Chester stepped closer to the first of the coolers. He reached a finger into the open mouth of the head that he had not yet identified. He asked, “What are these? Are these diamonds?”

  “They should have been,” said Bourne, “but I very much doubt it. I don’t think that the sender would have been so considerate as to forward that part of the shipment intact. You’re looking at a mouthful of gravel.”

  Chester abruptly drew his hand back. “Wait a minute. Those vials.” He wiped the hand against his jacket. “Are you sure these were only vaccines they smashed up? Who says they didn’t lace it with bugs?”

  In truth, that possibility had failed to occur to him. If any of several bacilli had been added, they both had been infected already. But so would whoever had packaged this mess. Bourne doubted that he’d just been murdered.

  He said, “They’re only vaccines and one or two new antivirals. All those vials are color-coded with strips of Mylar tape. Even crushed, I know what was in them.”

  Chester accepted that uncertain assurance. Once again he reached into the

  head’s open mouth. He took two of the stones and held them up to the light. “Yeah, they wouldn’t have wasted real diamonds on this. Must be hundreds stuffed in there, maybe more that he swallowed. Unless they didn’t know they were diamonds.”

  “They knew. I was only expecting a handful. And they’re letting me know that they knew that.” And they’re also letting me know, thought Bourne, that they know about Sunday being brunch day.

  Chester’s mind was elsewhere. He was poking the man’s cheeks. He said, “See this? Makes him look like a chipmunk. This guy couldn’t have fit one more stone.”

  “I suspect that his role in this was passive, Mr. Lilly.”

  “What’s that on forehead? Just cuts? Or a word?”

  “A word. Perhaps a name. It seems to start with an S. In any case, who is he? Did he work for Winfield?”

  “Not for Winfield, but he’s done a few things for you. This one’s that Ukrainian. He runs guns all over Africa. His name is Savran Bobik. Looks like he died hard.”

  “One does get that impression, Mr. Lilly.”

  “I mean harder than the others. Let me show you.”

  Chester seized the bearded one’s head by the hair and lifted it out of the cooler. He then did the same with poor Winfield’s matted locks. He held the two heads up to Bourne side by side, their noses almost touching each other.

  He said, “Look at the necks. See the way the cuts go? Winfield’s came from the back. Maybe two good chops. Winfield might have already been dead before they used the machete on him. But Bobik, my opinion, was alive and awake. See his cuts? They’re from the front. They wanted him to see it coming.”

  Bourne grunted. “That would seem to explain his expression.”

  “Him, they sawed before they chopped. See how the skin’s torn? Him, they did an inch or two at a time. He was probably dead in a couple of minutes, but it must have seemed longer to him.”

  Bourne waved the dripping heads from his sight. He was glad that the floor wasn’t carpeted. He peered into the container from which Bobik’s head was taken, still hoping to find those reports. He saw what seemed to be a thick wad of papers, but these were not bound; they did not look like documents. It looked like some sort of a fold-out.

  He said to Chester, “Would you put those things down? They seem to have come with instructions.”

  Chester stacked the two heads on top of the third and reached in to withdraw

  the sodden mass. He shook it out and he opened it gingerly. Bourne saw that it was a single large sheet that had been folded several times upon itself. It opened up to about poster-size. In fact, it was an actual poster.

  Though smeared, it showed a man in full length. The man was dressed in a uniform. The uniform was gaudy to the point of absurdity. It seemed more suitable for a Gilbert & Sullivan production than for use in the African bush. It was blue with red trim and dripping with braid, a gold star on each of the epaulets. It had a Sam Browne belt with two shoulder straps that crossed. They supported both a pistol and the sheath of a machete. The machete itself was in his hand. The hat was a kepi, flat on top with a visor, of the type that was worn by the French Foreign Legion. Fabric hung down from the sides and the back as protection against sun and insects.

  The face beneath the visor was grim. The idea, Bourne assumed, was that he should look fearsome. But he didn’t, especially. He looked almost embarrassed. It was as if he realized that the outfit was ludicrous, but had gamely agreed to pose in it. Whatever, thought Bourne. There he is and here we are. This delivery had come with a gift card after all.

  Bourne said, “Well, this seems to remove any doubt. But the thought behind the gesture still escapes me.”

  “You know this guy?” asked Chester.

  “That’s our friend, Alameo.”

  “That’s him? Oh, yeah. You said you met him once, right?”

  Bourne nodded. “He showed up at a cocktail reception in Luanda, hosted by the Portuguese embassy. I assumed that he was in their employ. We chatted at some length about politics. He had crashed that reception. He was there to take my measure. Mine and several others who were in attendance. It was a brazen performance.”

  “That’s why the bad blood?”

  “For that ruse? Not at all. One had to admire it. Strolling into that assemblage of the venal and corrupt. He even offered a toast to their ultimate victory and to his

  own capture and death. If they’d only known. How they wish they had known. He’s been quite inconvenient ever since.”

  Chester studied the face underneath the cap’s visor. He said, “I thought he’d look tougher. This guy looks ridiculous. Do you think he’s gone nuts? That wouldn’t surprise me. They all seem to go nuts. Must be something in the air over there.”

  Bourne took this to be a sly comment from Chester. Bourne knew that Chester knew perfectly well what might be “in the air,” over there.

  Above the photo, there were lines of bold type. But their ink had run more so than the photo. Much of it was illegible. None of it was in English. Bourne asked, “What does that say? Can you read it?”

  Chester pointed to an emblem, a stylized lion, which appeared at the bottom of the poster. “That’s the symbol for Dumas Duganga. He took over as head of the rebels after Jonas Savimbi got killed.”

  “I know who Duganga is, Chester.”

  “Duganga and Savimbi go back a long way, but Duganga was more an administrator type. That’s why they recruited Alameo.”

  “There’s a good deal more to it than that,” muttered Bourne, but he chose not to say any more.

  Chester studied the type. “Oh, wait. Now I get it. This poster’s got to be at least a year old. It looks like these guys were using the poster as a way to introduce Alameo.” Chester raised his finger to the top of the sheet and traced the first line of text. “See this? This part’s Portuguese. This word ‘chefe’ means chief. This word, ‘obedece,” I think means obey. And here’s the guy’s name. You can see the last three letters. They’re telling everyone to obey him.”

  “Who is ‘everyone?’”

  “All his troops,
for openers. And I guess all the civilians. To make sure, this is written in three different languages. See the second line? That’s Bantu. I only know a few words in Bantu, but I’d bet you that it says the same thing. The third line probably repeats it in Kikongo. Kikongo is like Bantu, but it’s pigeon Bantu. They speak it up in northern Angola.”

  “He’d have plastered this poster all over the country?”

  “All over the rebel part, yeah.”

  “Telling everyone who sees it to obey this man. But why not just his face? Why that costume?”

  “Because without it, this guy wouldn’t last long,” said Chester. “Some zoned out kid with an AK47 might kill him on sight for his shoes. This way they’d know he’s not someone to fuck with. That was then, though. I doubt he still needs it.”

  “Whatever,” said Bourne. “He will have to be dealt with. But why has he sent me these heads?”

  Chester had moved to the stainless steel sink. He was washing his hands with soap and water. Bourne said to him, “Chester, when you’re quite finished, I have just asked you a question.”

  Chester searched for a towel. He seemed to be stalling. He wet his lips and said, “It could be revenge. I’m not sure, but I’ve heard certain things.”

  “And now I’m about to hear them. Will I hate this?”

  “Not revenge against you. This would be mostly against Bobik. From what I hear, Bobik has done this himself.”

  “Done what, exactly? You mean cutting off heads?”

  “And sending them, yeah. At least once. From what I hear.”

  “Now, Chester…I’m going to ask you straight out. Did you happen to hear whose head Bobik sent?”

  Lilly squirmed. He gestured toward the figure on the poster. “It was Alameo’s woman. This was three or four weeks ago. She came into Luanda; she got introduced to Bobik. This was at some nightclub. She came on to him, went home with him. A day or two later he found out who she was. Someone spotted her and tipped him, I don’t know who. I guess Alameo sent her, maybe to pop him, maybe just to see what Bobik was up to. Bobik killed her and sent him her head.”

  Bourne gritted his teeth. “Her name? Do you know it?”

  “Sara…Sara something. I think that was it.”

  “Then if I had to guess, that’s what’s carved in his forehead.” Bourne closed his eyes briefly. He took a slow breath. “That would certainly account for Mr. Bobik’s condition.”

  “You mean why he died slow? Yeah, but there might be more. Bobik sold a load of weapons to this other group of rebels. Not in Angola. In Sierra Leone. It’s that bunch led by Colonel Mobote.”

  “The butcher of Kampala? The one who cooks people?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. And he doesn’t just cook them. The guy collects recipes. He says the heart and the liver are the best for building strength, but a young female ass tastes the best; it’s like veal.”

  Bourne stared for a moment. “Is this legend or fact?”

  “Oh, it’s true,” said Chester. “Mobote made this videotape. Bobik had a copy. He showed me and Kruger. It’s Mobote using ass to make veal piccata. This guy is a real Martha Stewart.”

  “You’re saying, I take it, that he’s totally insane.”

  Chester shrugged. “Yeah, he’s nuts. I don’t know about totally. Some of it’s for juju. Juju’s sort of like magic. Whatever part of a body you eat, a bullet can’t hit you in your own body part. But it’s also to scare the piss out of people. All this guy has to do is look at your ass and…”

  Bourne rolled his eyes. “Let’s move on.”

  “Okay, the weapons. Mobote was supposed to pay Bobik up front with about two million in diamonds. Mobote sent his bagmen down to Angola, but the diamonds they brought were low quality crap with even some industrials mixed in. Bobik told the bagmen to take a walk; don’t come back unless the rocks were gem quality.”

  Bourne asked him, “How is this relevant?”

  “It’s background,” said Chester. “It’s…what’s the word…context. A few days go by, Mobote’s bagmen come back, and now they’ve got some very good diamonds. They’d ambushed one of Savimbi’s mules who was smuggling them out of the country.”

  “Savimbi’s?”

  “Well…Duganga’s. I still get them confused. Those two guys were joined at the hip. Anyway, knowing Bobik, I bet he tipped them on the mule and also got a cut on what they took. Then Duganga, I bet you, got word of the deal and…”

  “Duganga? Or our friend, Alameo?”

  “I don’t know. Either one. They both would have known that Bobik’s on your payroll. Alameo could have figured that you owe him for his woman. Duganga would have figured that you owe him some diamonds.”

  “I owe them? Why? I had no role either.”

  “But you do move weapons. It’s a logical connection.”

  “No, Chester, it isn’t. It’s a leap to a conclusion. We may have used Bobik. Or rather you may have used him. But I never knew of this man’s existence before he showed up here this morning.”

  Chester shrugged. “You can’t know everyone. Some, it’s better you don’t. But they know who you are and they use your name sometimes. Your name opens doors.

  You’d be surprised.”

  “I’ve been surprised enough for one day,” Bourne told him. “But I’ve a feeling that there’s much more to come.”

  Chester gestured toward the pantry. “You got any instant coffee? I rushed over here; I didn’t stop for coffee.”

  “You can wait.”

  Chester opened the fridge. “All the food for your brunch, is all that upstairs? I never had any breakfast either.”

  “You will not derail me, Chester. Have some orange juice and speak.”

  “I’m not ducking you. I’m trying to gather my thoughts. On an empty stomach, it’s distracting.”

  “When we’ve finished,” said Bourne, “you may wallow in Eggs Florentine. Please return to the subject at hand.”

  Chester said, “Look, if you’re bothered by that arms deal…”

  “I am not. It doesn’t concern me.”

  “I’m just saying if you were, it’s not too late to stop it. That shipment left Luanda, I think yesterday, maybe Friday, but Sierra Leone’s way the hell up the coast. It could take, I don’t know, up to a week.”

  “How is it that you know these particulars?” asked Bourne.

  “I don’t. Not exactly. But I can find out.”

  Bourne squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to hold his temper. He said,

  “You are not to decide what I’m better off not knowing. Now I want you to tell me, no more bobbing and weaving, why we’re looking at three heads, not one. The woman’s head and stolen diamonds would account for Mr. Bobik. What part did Cecil Winfield play in this?”

  “In those things? None. I don’t think he knew.”

  “And yet, here he is. Why was this done to Winfield?”

  “It… could be that some of the stuff Winfield makes has been tried out against Duganga’s troops.”

  Bourne took another breath. “Could be? Or it was?”

  “Could be because I’m not sure, but maybe so. Could be that Alameo doped out where it came from. Like you said, he met you. He knows you.”

  Bourne looked into his eyes. “I think you know more than you’re telling me, Chester. Don’t make me ask you again.”

  “Bobik and Kruger…they talked about it once. Trying some of these bugs on the rebels in Angola. That’s what Kruger used to do in South Africa. They said all these diseases come from Africa anyway, so Duganga would think it was more of the same. I mean, they eat monkeys. They eat monkey brains. That’s how AIDS and Ebola and all that shit started. Bobik says, ‘Let’s let them try something new.’”

  Bourne’s expression darkened further. He asked, “And you said…?”

  “I told them, plain English, I said, ‘Don’t even think it.’ I said, ‘Mr. Bourne has his own plans for testing those bugs and if you screw them up, you’re dead meat.’ But the
y might have done it anyway. I’m just guessing.”

  “Bobik and Kruger, you say.”

  “And maybe Winfield. Winfield might have gone along. He might have figured, ‘What the hell…let’s do a bigger field test.’ Bigger than what he was doing for you.”

  “You say they did this on their own? You were in no way involved?”

  “I thought it was just talk. You know how guys talk when they’re having a few beers. Most times, that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Most times, you say.”

  “This could be the exception.” Chester sipped his orange juice from the bottle.

  “And they thought that Duganga would never catch on. These three heads would suggest that he did.”

  Chester paused to think. He said, “More likely, Alameo. He found out when he got his hands on Bobik.”

  “And?” asked Bourne.

  “And what?” Chester shrugged. “Here he is.”

  “Alameo finds Bobik. He takes his revenge. But all three heads have been sent here to me. There’s a gap in my grasp of the sequence of events.”

  “You’re asking why you? It’s your company.”

  Bourne struggled to control his rising frustration. “I’ll say it again. I’d never heard of Savran Bobik. I am innocent of the murder of Alameo’s woman. Why did all this not end with Bobik’s death?”

  “I can make a good guess, but you get mad when I guess.”

  “Let’s hear it. I will be the soul of patience.”

  “Like I already said, I bet they got Bobik first. I mean, smell him; he’s the ripest of the three. Let’s say that at first they didn’t tie this to VaalChem. The woman he killed and the diamonds he stole were all the reason they needed. They probably would have started to peel off his face just to give him a taste of what was coming. In his place, what would you do? You’d try to deal, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “He would have fingered Kruger and Winfield. He would have told them that VaalChem’s the reason why so many of their troops were getting sick. So they pull a raid on VaalChem; they bring Bobik with them, or maybe they only bring his head.”

  “Um…VaalChem is a sizeable facility, Chester. It must have a hundred security guards, to say nothing of a razor wire fence.”