“My wife was worried, so—”
“It wouldn’t have been too painful to lift a phone and—”
“Assistant Superintendent, that’s water under the bridge. Let’s talk about the future. I’ve something interesting to tell you. What’ll you have to drink?”
“A cappuccino.” Kubu paused as he tried to sort out his conflicting emotions—anger at Newsom’s unannounced departure from Botswana, curiosity as to what Newsom was going to say. “Please,” he added reluctantly.
A few minutes later, Newsom returned and put a cup down in front of Kubu.
“I apologize for not letting you know I was leaving,” Newsom said as he sat down. “I was angry at being mugged. My gut was aching, and all I wanted was to get the hell out of Dodge.”
Kubu wasn’t sure what that meant but said nothing.
“As soon as you left the hospital, I called the embassy for assistance.”
“At two in the morning?”
“Yes. The ambassador wasn’t happy to be pulled out of bed, but one of his responsibilities is to help Americans in trouble, any time of the day or night. So he helped me. All I wanted was to get home, so he made that happen. That’s all there is to it.”
“Except for the fact that in the space of a few days, your friend in the Department of Mines is murdered, and right after you return from a visit to a mining company, you’re attacked by someone who wants to kill you. I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. Newsom. And I’m sure you don’t either. What’s going on? What’s this tidbit of interesting information you have to share with me?”
“First, let me tell you how I came about it. A friend of mine works in the foreign exchange department of a Botswana bank. He told me a couple of months ago that someone influential in mining in Botswana received a large wire transfer—over a hundred thousand pula—from the Standard Chartered Bank in Lagos, Nigeria. Of course, this piqued my interest, so I did some follow-up.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I contacted a friend of mine here in New York, who did some digging around and found out that about nine months ago the same Nigerian account started receiving monthly deposits of five thousand US dollars from a bank in Shanghai.” He paused and looked at Kubu expectantly.
Kubu decided not to get sucked into the game and said nothing.
“The person I’m talking about,” Newsom continued, “is Director Mopati of the Department of Mines. And, in case you don’t know, the headquarters of the Konshua Mine is in Shanghai.”
Kubu wasn’t surprised to hear a suggestion of corruption. Civil servants in Botswana, even directors, didn’t make very much money and were often easy targets, particularly if the incentive was large.
“You seem to be very well connected, Mr. Newsom,” Kubu said, holding Newsom’s gaze. He thought he would bring into the open what was on his mind. “I assume that people working for the American government are better paid than their Batswana counterparts.”
Newsom laughed. “You think I work for the US government? No, Assistant Superintendent. I’m not with the CIA or FBI or whatever you’re thinking. I’m an independent contractor who needs the most accurate and current information in order to best help my clients.”
Kubu reached for his cappuccino. How do they do that? he wondered as he admired the intricate fern-leaf pattern in the foam. It’s a pity to destroy it.
He took a mouthful and set the cup down.
“Mr. Newsom, your so-called information solves nothing and only raises questions. One: Why didn’t you tell me this when we met in Botswana? It could be very relevant to the Kunene case. Two: Even if Mopati received money from Shanghai, it could be a completely legitimate transaction. You haven’t shown me there’s a connection to the Konshua Mine. You only insinuated it. And three: Where’s the evidence? All you’ve given me are words, and you know very well I can’t use anything you’ve said without hard facts.”
“I haven’t finished, Assistant Superintendent. As I said, I first wanted to set the stage. I’ve something else for you—hard evidence that you can take with you.”
Newsom pulled an iPod out of his pocket and handed Kubu a set of earbuds. “Put these on and listen to what I’ve got.”
Kubu fiddled with the buds until they were in his ears. How can kids wear these all day long? he wondered. They’re so uncomfortable.
When he was settled, Newsom touched the Play icon.
* * *
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Kubu realized he had just listened to a conversation that could potentially send two people to jail: Director Mopati of the Department of Mines and an unknown person at the other end of the call, whose voice seemed familiar. Although the details were vague, it was clear Mopati was being paid off to help some company obtain a mining lease.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“It doesn’t matter where or how I got it. You know it’s Mopati, and I can tell you that the other person is a Mr. Shonhu, assistant to the Konshua Mine manager in Shoshong.”
The man who read the statement about the riot, Kubu thought. That’s who it is.
Newsom handed Kubu a flash drive. “It’s all on here, Assistant Superintendent. Your hard evidence.”
“Perhaps,” Kubu countered. “But I won’t be able to use it unless I can prove it was obtained legally.”
“In a court of law, that’s probably true,” Newsom said. “But there are other ways of using evidence like that.”
Is he just pointing the finger at Mopati again, hoping I’ll pressure him to resign, or is he suggesting I use it to investigate and prosecute him? Kubu wondered. He leaned back in his chair as it occurred to him how Newsom could have got the recording.
“Since you know so much,” Kubu continued, “perhaps you can tell me again what you know of big cash deposits into your friend Kunene’s account every now and again.”
Newsom took another sip of his coffee.
“I made those deposits.”
“You did?” Kubu sat up. “You told me Kunene was totally honest. Now you tell me you were bribing him or maybe paying him to spy on his boss.”
“Calm down, Assistant Superintendent. I never said anything of the sort. Kunene was worried that Mopati was taking money from the Chinese, so I helped him verify it. Naturally, that was useful information for me too. It was a sort of quid pro quo, so I gave him a little money for helping me. I didn’t ask him to direct decisions my way or in the way of the companies I represent.”
“You know, of course, Mr. Newsom, that recording another person’s conversation without consent is a crime.”
“Which is the bigger crime, Assistant Superintendent? Recording a private phone call or the corruption of a senior government official? Botswana has a fine reputation as a well-run country. Do you want that sullied?”
Kubu stared at Newsom. The old trap, he thought, that the end justifies the means.
“Mr. Newsom,” Kubu said, changing direction, “all of this would have been very helpful to know when I asked you last time.”
“But I obviously couldn’t have told you while I was in Botswana. You would’ve detained me on some charge or other for trying to buy a government official or for illegal wiretapping.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Kubu fumed. “And if I can find a way to detain you here, I’ll do that immediately.”
Newsom laughed. “Don’t waste your time. It’s not going to happen.”
Kubu leaned back in his chair and stared at Newsom.
“What’s in it for you, Mr. Newsom?” he asked after a few moments. “I don’t see where you fit in.”
“As you know, I consult for various American mining interests. One of them is interested in the area around Shoshong. All we want is fair consideration of our proposal to mine the area. If we get the rights, I get a nice bonus.”
His nice bonus, Kubu thought, is probably more than I’ll earn in my lifetime.
“Why is the area suddenly so appealing?” Kubu asked. “The Konshua Mine’s apparently been there for quite a lo
ng time.”
“As you no doubt know, Assistant Superintendent, nuclear power is not very popular after the Fukushima disaster. Konshua mines uranium, which, of course, has dropped dramatically in price. Germany has decided to decommission all of its plants, and many other countries will follow suit or are unlikely to build new plants because of public antipathy. To make money at these lower prices, Konshua has to increase its output. Hence its interest in the new land. It already has the processing capacity, so more raw material is very attractive. If it doesn’t expand, it will probably have to close.”
Newsom drained his coffee and used his teaspoon to scoop up the remaining foam.
“The company I work for,” he continued, “wants to break into the mining world in Botswana because it likes the country’s management, and it thinks uranium will rebound. It wants to start a mine now, while prices are down, so it can stockpile for when the time is right to sell. It’ll be too late to start only when prices begin going up again. It’s a big risk, but Texans are not averse to risk, and they’ve lots of money.”
“Why don’t they just buy the Konshua Mine?” Kubu asked.
“We approached them, but they don’t want to sell.”
“At any price?”
“Not at the price we were willing to offer.”
“And that was?”
Newsom smiled but didn’t respond.
“Okay, Mr. Newsom. Let’s get back to you. Who do you think attacked you?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect someone working for the Chinese. Mopati and the Konshua Mine must have discovered that Kunene and I were onto their cozy relationship. So they came after both of us. They got Goodman, and I escaped by the skin of my teeth. Are you still surprised that I was in such a hurry to leave Botswana?”
“What are your clients going to say?”
“Most of my work is done anyway for the formal presentations next week.”
“Next week? Why next week?”
“Mopati has told the mine and us to make a final presentation next week—which will happen unless you use the information I gave you.”
“But what can you do from here?”
“One of my colleagues can make the presentation, and I can join via telephone or Skype to help on the technical details.”
“And you think that someone from the mine tried to kill you so there wouldn’t be a presentation from the people you represent?”
“That’s right. And because we were onto their corrupt relationship with the director of mines.”
Kubu decided to change the subject.
“Did you have any contact with Chief Koma?”
Newsom shook his head.
“What about his son, Julius? He seemed to be very involved in the whole business.”
“We were playing it by the book, Assistant Superintendent. We were going to talk to the chief only after the lease had been granted.”
“I’m sure you’re aware of what happened in Shoshong last Saturday?” Kubu said.
Newsom nodded.
“How does that affect your proposal? Surely, it’s unclear what the new chief will decide—if there is a new chief by next week. I’m told it’s a complicated situation, with three groups providing the chief in rotation.”
Newsom shrugged. “Whoever becomes chief will support the mine’s expansion. There’s too much to lose if they don’t.”
“You seem very sure of yourself. I’m told that the riot has caused a lot of people to turn against the mine, because they blame it for the trouble.”
Newsom shook his head. “I don’t think the mine had anything to do with the riot. That would be very stupid of them. They’d never get the mining lease if someone found out.”
“So, who was responsible?”
“Wouldn’t you be upset if someone took away your only chance to make a halfway decent living? I think the old chief was responsible by turning down the mine’s offer.”
“And the killings were a result of mob behavior?”
Newsom nodded. “I’m told things are getting desperate up there.”
Kubu finished his cappuccino, wondering where the meeting was headed.
“Mr. Newsom,” Kubu said, “you obviously want me to do something with the information you’ve given me, but I can’t work out what that is. I have no proof, no evidence I can use, and all the accusations are coming from a direct competitor of the existing mine.”
“It’s simple, Assistant Superintendent. I want you to find out who killed my friend, Kunene, and who attacked me. And I want the company I represent to have a fair chance in getting the mining rights in Shoshong.”
He stood up. “Enjoy the rest of your conference.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the exit, leaving Kubu wondering what Newsom’s real agenda was.
CHAPTER 42
Kubu returned to the conference but paid scant attention to the proceedings. His mind was working on what Newsom had told him. The only thing of which he was certain was that Newsom didn’t just want a fair chance for his clients to get the mining concession. He would prefer that there was no competition at all.
So why did Newsom contact him? What did he want him to do?
Kubu closed his eyes as the current speaker droned on about something or other. He wasn’t paying any attention to what was being said.
After a while, he opened his eyes and pulled a writing tablet from the bag Interpol had presented all delegates. He turned to the first page and wrote a large numeral 1 and circled it. Next to it, he wrote, Mopati corrupt.
Then he jotted down what Newsom had told him—the money transfers and the recording of Mopati’s conversation with the mine manager’s assistant. He stared at what he’d written for a few minutes. The allegations were useless in a legal sense but potentially useful in persuading the police to open an inquiry into Mopati and his dealings with the Konshua Mine. That would suit Newsom’s purpose very well.
Then Kubu turned the page and wrote and circled a large 2. Next to it, he wrote, Kunene death—murder? Again, he stared at the page for several minutes.
Then he jotted down the several points that indicated that the death was a murder and not a suicide. Next he wrote, Suspects. Below that he wrote, Mopati, Newsom, and Konshua Mine. If Kunene had discovered that Mopati was corrupt and Mopati had found out, that would be strong motivation for Mopati to get rid of Kunene. Or perhaps Kunene was blackmailing Mopati. Again a strong motive for Mopati to get rid of him. Similarly he could apply the same reasoning to the mine. Kunene would definitely be an obstacle to their plans.
For a few minutes, he couldn’t come up with a plausible motive for Newsom wanting Kunene dead. Then he realized what a motive could be. Maybe Newsom was playing some double game, which seemed likely, because mining consultants don’t usually tap cell phones and whistle up support from the US embassy at two in the morning. If Kunene had discovered it, that could be a threat to Newsom.
Kunene certainly threatened someone’s plans, Kubu mused. But whose? At the same time, the payments into Kunene’s account, apparently from Newsom, suggested that Kunene wasn’t squeaky clean either.
He turned the page, wrote a large 3, circled it, followed by Chief murdered. Does this have anything to do with Kunene and Newsom? he wondered. He shook his head. Something is wrong with all of this, he thought. Something doesn’t fit. He closed his eyes once again and hoped his subconscious would bring something useful to the surface.
After a few minutes, Kubu was roused from his reverie by a loud round of applause. He glanced up as an elderly, uniformed officer left the stage and a young, blond woman entered. Kubu donned his headphones just in time to hear that the next speaker was the minister of justice in Denmark, the minister to whom the Danish police reported. She was going to speak on the topic of preparing for the inevitable protests about what Denmark was going to do with the radioactive waste and spent fuel rods from the various decommissioned nuclear facilities.
Kubu turned to the person next to him
—a delegate from Bosnia. “I didn’t know that Denmark had closed its nuclear plants,” he whispered.
“Many years ago,” came the heavily accented reply. “And Germany is doing same. It closed eight plants after Fukushima and will close rest over next ten years.”
Kubu nodded his thanks.
This doesn’t sound like an environment for starting or expanding a uranium mine, he thought. But maybe the Texans were willing to take a big risk if there was potentially a big payback. And maybe it did make sense for the Konshua Mine to make better use of its processing facilities. But he couldn’t see why.
He shook his head. Who could I check with? he wondered.
A few minutes’ thought yielded only one likely contact. And that was a long shot.
Several years before, Kubu had met a Professor Cretchley from the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology. He was a large Midwest farm boy, who was visiting the various Debswana diamond mines in Botswana. Kubu had met him in the unlikely place of Exclusive Books in Riverwalk Mall. Kubu was trying to find a copy of the The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and Cretchley was trying to find a travel book on Botswana to see how he could spend a week at the end of his visit. They had literally bumped into each other moving down one of the small aisles in the shop and ended up having coffee nearby.
* * *
BY MIDAFTERNOON, KUBU decided that he’d had enough of the conference and headed back to his hotel. As soon as he squeezed into his room, he picked up the phone and dialed directory assistance. After struggling to negotiate the automated menu, he eventually was connected to the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology and asked for Professor Cretchley. Surprisingly, the professor was in his office.
Kubu reminded Cretchley of their meeting, and they enjoyed some small talk before Kubu asked him what he thought of the future of nuclear power and the potential for starting a new uranium mine. Cretchley’s answer was direct: “I’d put my money elsewhere,” he said. “There’s a chance that uranium will rebound, but there’s growing sentiment against the use of nuclear power due to the tragedy in Fukushima.”
A Death in the Family Page 19
