Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
Page 38
Beardy and Edison both had faces awash with surprise. Edison had no idea what Kubu was talking about and was scared the situation might get out of hand. But Beardy was shocked. He opened his mouth, started to say something, and then shook his head. “I’ve nothing to say. I want to be treated as a prisoner of war, not as a common criminal.”
“Oh, nothing common about you. Kidnapping, attacking a policewoman, accessory to the assassination of the leader of a neighboring state. Not common at all. I think we’re going to find lots of other charges for you, too.” Suddenly Beardy’s demeanor changed. Kubu had overplayed his hand. Beardy clammed up. After that he said nothing except that he wanted his lawyer. Even a threat to extradite him to Zimbabwe produced no reaction.
But Kubu felt he had enough. “Come on, Edison. We know what’s going on now. Let’s get it to the director.” Edison, who had absolutely no idea what was going on, agreed readily, and they left.
♦
Mabaku listened carefully, interrupting only when he needed clarification or an extra detail. When Kubu had finished, he turned to Edison. “I thought I had made myself quite clear about the professional conflict of Kubu being involved with interviewing Beardy?”
Edison looked from side to side, wondering how a promising lunch had led him into so much trouble. Kubu came to his rescue. “I insisted, Director. You were involved with the meeting about security for the African Union meeting, and I felt there wasn’t a moment to lose. I gave Edison no choice.” Edison nodded, relieved.
Mabaku decided to let the matter drop. “Let me see if I have this fantastic story straight. Tinubu was a courier taking money to overthrow the government of Zimbabwe. And it’s certainly a government most people would like to see changed. This Madrid character is the fix-it man, and the money’s destined for him and his men. Dupie steals it, Kubu sticks his neck out, and both of them are on the receiving end of Madrid’s anger. Beardy – one of the mercenaries – gets caught, but the others get away.
“Let’s summarize the evidence for this hypothetical plot to assassinate the president of Zimbabwe.” He counted on his fingers. “One, Kubu doesn’t see Tinubu as a smuggler – or at least not a drug smuggler – because he’s a nice person, likes kids. Two, Tinubu took a newspaper outlining the itinerary for the various visiting presidents’ trips with him to Jackalberry. Three, he had deep ties to the country from the war days, and he was involved with a support group for Zimbabwean refugees in Gaborone. That could’ve been the hippo’s ears of his political involvement, with a lot of undercover stuff below the surface of the water. Four, Beardy was shocked by the lie that all his comrades are being held by the Zimbabwe police – and particularly Madrid who he’s never admitted knowing. Five, he asked for treatment as a prisoner of war.” He had to start on the fingers of his other hand. “And six, Madrid has the resources and the balls to pull off the kidnapping of a policeman’s family. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a drug ring. Is that about it?”
Kubu nodded. Mabaku had summed it up very well. Mabaku turned back to Edison.
“What’s your take on this?” Edison squirmed in his chair. He had nothing to go on but his gut feeling. But Kubu was right, usually.
“I think Kubu may be right,” he said at last.
Mabaku walked to the window and gazed out at Kgale Hill.
“We’re talking about two days from now. We can’t afford to be wrong about this. Frankly, I think the evidence is very tenuous. The only thing that jolts me is Beardy claiming status as a prisoner of war.” He waited, but no one commented. He ground his teeth, ignored a twinge from his stomach, and headed for the telephone.
“I can’t afford to ignore this, no matter how remote the chance of its being true. I need to talk to the commissioner right now. In private.” Kubu and Edison got up and left Mabaku holding the time bomb they had passed to him.
Mabaku knew how to get the commissioner’s attention quickly, and fifteen minutes later he had outlined the whole story.
The commissioner was silent for what seemed like an age. “This man who calls himself Madrid. Is that his real name?”
“I have no idea, Commissioner. It’s the only name we have heard used.”
“Ah. And it was used in the context of the attack on the tourist camp you mentioned? Nowhere else?” Mabaku admitted this was so. “Ah. And apart from what we might charitably call an informed hunch from your assistant superintendent, the only evidence we have to connect the man you have in custody with this hypothetical plot is the remark that he wants to be treated as a prisoner of war? Completely ridiculous! The Republic of Botswana is not at war, and, in its entire history has not been at war, with any country.”
“He misused the term, but it was clear what he meant, I should think.”
“Ah. And what is that?”
“That he is fighting in an army. Against a country.”
“But not this country. Don’t you think he might rather ask for political asylum? No, I think we are setting too much store by the ravings of a dangerous criminal who’s in custody for kidnapping a policeman’s sister-in-law. The same policeman who has now come up with the idea of this extraordinary plot.”
“Nevertheless, Commissioner, we have a situation here.”
“Ah, yes. A situation. Mabaku, I recognize your commitment. I have repeatedly emphasized the importance of the African Union meeting going smoothly, without embarrassment or hitches. You have taken that to heart most commendably. What I’m going to tell you now is absolutely confidential. Keep it strictly to yourself. We have been assured by all parties that the president of Zimbabwe will not be in danger while he is in Botswana. Do you understand me? By all parties.”
Mabaku thought he understood.
“However, I will deploy additional men and demand additional vigilance. We can’t afford to be complacent.”
This sounded more promising. “Should we see what we can shake out of the bearded Khumalo then?”
“Why not? He’s the only connection with the kidnappers. We need to tie that up as quickly as possible. But you do it yourself, Mabaku. Keep Bengu out of it. He’s too personally involved. I would’ve thought that was obvious to you anyway.”
Mabaku agreed, accepting the implied rebuke, and promised to handle the matter himself.
The commissioner continued, “Report anything you learn directly to me. And for God’s sake, keep any hint of this out of the newspapers. Is that absolutely clear, Director Mabaku?”
“Yes, Commissioner.”
“Well, then have a good evening, Mabaku. It’s very encouraging to know I have your full support. Goodnight.”
Mabaku put down the phone and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He was sweating, although it wasn’t really hot. Must be the operation, he thought. Marie was right as usual, I should’ve stayed at home for a few more days.
♦
Kubu fidgeted while waiting for the director. Joy would be home by now and probably had news she wanted to share with him. Hopefully not bad news. When Mabaku called them back, he hoped the matter would be resolved quickly, and he was not disappointed.
Mabaku leaned back and folded his arms. “I fully apprised the commissioner. He says we don’t have enough evidence to take the matter further.”
Kubu was not surprised. “Yes, I thought he might say that. Don’t rock the boat.” The phrase made him think of poor Tatwa in the river. “Just give us a few more hours with Beardy and authorize a deal for him. We’ll get a full confession in exchange for a light sentence.” He looked at the director’s resolute expression. “A few hours tomorrow, that is,” he added, remembering Joy.
Mabaku shook his head. “The commissioner’s instructions in this matter are absolutely clear. I’m to follow up with Beardy personally.” He held up his hand as Kubu started to protest. “I’ll pursue your idea. Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of it. Tomorrow if I can. You’re to keep out of it, though. Is that clear?”
Kubu nodded, having no option but to accept.
Edison, who had been fairly confused all along, smiled, nodded, and left. Kubu wanted to suggest how to approach Beardy, how to follow up. But he realized the issue was completely out of his hands now. So be it.
“Good evening, Director Mabaku,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
74
Enoch bashed through the buffalo grass, his boots sinking into the mud of the Linyanti marsh. His backpack was comfortable now with the newspaper and rocks jettisoned. It contained only minimal clothes, an old sleeping bag, food, a water bottle, a waterproof wallet stuffed with various currencies, and some equipment. Midges buzzed around him as he walked, biting when they could. He ignored them. He was used to these conditions and, despite the discomfort, he was happy. He felt free. Perhaps for the first time in thirty years.
His intention had been to head much farther into the flood plain and land on the Botswana side. There were people there who knew him, people he could trust, but there were far more who did not know him and who were thus even more trustworthy. But when the boat ran out of fuel, he was too close to the areas that the Defense Force patrolled. So he had chosen the other shore. In any case, Namibia would lose interest in finding him long before Botswana did.
He smiled, recalling the tall, thin detective churning up the water and screaming his head off, while the big one freaked on land, too fat to do anything useful.
But they’d had the last laugh. He was positive the boat had been fueled up; someone had deliberately emptied the tank. The spotter plane had come much sooner than he had expected, too; he had been forced to spend the day huddled in a thicket like a lion cub secreted from hyenas. And the night had been spent uncomfortably in a tree, out of reach of predators. A helicopter had been active during this morning, but had taken itself off after a few hours, probably to scan the Botswana side. Now he needed the perfect camouflage, a small village out of contact with the world. Somewhere safe to rest and plan his next move.
He checked his cell phone; he wanted to be out of range. A village with reception would have a communal phone and thus contact with the outside world. At first there was no signal, but suddenly it strengthened and a Namibian network offered its services. He cursed, and headed on.
An hour later he saw smoke spiraling above the tall grass. It was some way off and back toward the watercourse. It might indicate a fishing village. He had little option now, the day was getting old, and soon he would have to find a place to spend the night. Building a fire was out of the question, so his best bet was to head for the smoke. Even if it turned out to be poachers, he could join them for the night. He had money to pay his way. And he had Dupie’s revolver, only one shot fired, as a last resort.
He had to detour as he came to waterlogged areas where the flood had spread into the marsh. He was beginning to fear he would not make it before dark, when he came to a ridge running parallel to the game track he had been following. It was worth the short climb to get a view of where he was.
From the top he could see that the land fell away steeply to the flood plain, which was now reclaimed by the Linyanti. A group of temporary huts formed a horseshoe around a small bay. There were mokoros and drying nets. And in the valley there would be no cell phone reception. It was perfect. But there was a problem. A large group of elephants had taken the middle ground between him and the village. They were decimating the foliage of the trees scattered on the lower hillside above the waterlogged plains. It was a breeding herd with females and calves. The villagers were making a big fuss and the damp grass fire causing all the smoke was probably to keep the elephants at bay. Enoch sighed. He was tired and hungry, and he wanted a place to sleep where he did not have to worry about hyenas and lions. If he tried to outflank the herd, it would be a long way around, and it might even leave him stranded in the dark. He put his hand to his breast feeling for the Watching Eye that had hung around his neck, the Eye that matched Dupie’s. But Dupie’s Eye was in a thousand pieces, and he had thrown his own into the Linyanti. That time was past. He slung his pack over his shoulders and headed down the hill toward the village.
At first it seemed that the elephants would ignore him. He had to pass through the herd, but he kept as far as possible from any individual, and particularly from the females with young. He made no effort to be quiet, feeling it was better not to behave as a stalker. One or two lifted their trunks to smell the air, flapped their ears threateningly, and pawed the ground, but he passed by, and they let him go. He thought he was through the herd, home free.
Suddenly he came upon a young female with a younger calf, who had lagged behind the herd to enjoy the green papyrus and the sweet river water. They saw each other at almost the same moment, and the cow panicked. She gave a shrill, high-pitched trumpet and charged, determined to eliminate this threat to her youngster. The baby trumpeted too, impressed by the noise he had created but unsure what the fuss was about. Luckily, Enoch was on a fairly steep part of the ridge, and there was a huge baobab to his left. He had time to duck behind it before the female thundered over the spot he had been occupying seconds before. She turned to find him, knowing exactly where he was, but her calf, still producing shrill imitations of his mother, was right behind her. The threat was no longer between them and the herd. She trumpeted again, turned surprisingly quickly, and started up the hill at a pace so fast that her baby could barely keep up. In seconds they were gone.
Enoch waited a few minutes while his heart rate returned to normal and his muscles relaxed. He had been set to leap into the baobab, one tree in which he would be safe from the most determined elephant, but only if he had made the first branch ten feet above his head. It seemed that Eye or no Eye, his luck had held.
Calm now, he made his way down the hill to the village. They were not Batswana, but understood Setswana. He told them he was surveying for a mining company and showed them his GPS. He asked if he could use his cell phone. At first they did not understand, but when he showed it to them, they laughed loudly and shook their heads. They wanted to know how he had managed to get around the elephants. He told them he had walked through the herd. It was all in a day’s work. He became an instant celebrity.
Two women were cooking fresh fish, wrapped in aromatic leaves, over open coals from the fire, while another stirred a pot of the ubiquitous mielie meal for pappa. The men invited him to join them, and he accepted graciously, but insisted that he pay his way. He had pula, not Namibian dollars, but that was fine.
“The white men have lots of cash,” he explained, and they nodded in sage acceptance. They had calabashes of beer and enjoyed his company the better for the money. The evening was fine, and Enoch relaxed for the first time in days, maybe in years. When the meal was over and all the beer was gone, he shared a hut with a single man in the group and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
But one of the older men, toothless and early to bed, religiously listened to the news on a portable shortwave radio every night at 9:00 a.m. Usually, there was little he understood and less of interest. But this was a special night. This night was different. Enoch’s luck had just run out.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
75
It was nearly 6:00 a.m. when Kubu got home, and he approached the gate in an ambivalent mood. Should he have called? But he did not want to be physically separated from Joy if the news was bad. He had meant to be home early, but the issue with Beardy had made him late. Wasted time, he thought bitterly. They weren’t taking the Zimbabwe plot idea seriously. Anyway, he had done his best.
As usual, Ilia was at the gate making a huge fuss of her returning master. There was nothing for it but to put her in the car so that Kubu could drive in without worrying about where she was. It calmed her down, too. He parked the car and went up to the house. It was still light, but Joy was not on the veranda. Kubu swallowed
hard and opened the front door.
“My darling! I’m here!”
“I’m in the lounge, Kubu.”
Joy was relaxing in an armchair, reading a magazine. She was wearing one of his favorite dresses, one she had bought for a fancy reception to which they had been invited the previous year. It traced and hugged every curve, and with subtle makeup, Joy had been the most beautiful woman there. For a moment Kubu wondered if he had forgotten that they were going out, but then he saw the dining table set for two. The special dinner service was in use, and two tall candles waited to be lit. A delicious aroma of oxtail stew wafted from the kitchen. I’ve forgotten some special anniversary again, Kubu thought, worried. He stood gaping at Joy, still holding his briefcase.
“Do you want a steelworks, or will you open some wine?” Joy asked, putting down the magazine. Kubu played for time. “A steelworks will be wonderful to start. You look ravishing. My favorite dress! I’m very spoiled.” He dropped the briefcase, lifted her in his arms, and gave her a long kiss, which left them both a little breathless.
“I love this dress. I thought I’d wear it for you tonight. I may not be able to wear it for a while.”
Kubu just nodded. “What did Dr. Diklekeng say?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Let me get the steelworks first.” She was already busy with it. “Why don’t you choose a wine? We’re having the oxtail stew you like so much.”
“We need something heavy with that. What do you feel like? A shiraz or a Bordeaux blend?”
“Whatever you prefer. I’ll just have a sip to taste.”
Ah ha, Kubu thought. He busied himself opening a rich shiraz from Stellenbosch, which could breathe while they had the soft drinks.
“So,” he said complacently when they were settled. “We are going to have a baby!”
Joy’s jaw dropped. “Yes, that’s what Dr. Diklekeng told me. I was shocked! But how on earth did you know? You didn’t phone him, did you?” There was an edge to the last question.