“What about gold and diamonds?” Kubu asked.
“Gold is on a downward slope at the moment, but there is a good chance it will recover over the next few years,” Cretchley said. “As for diamonds, starting a new mine now would be very risky. The big mines in Botswana have already cut back on production, and they could ramp up quickly if demand grew.”
“Can you think of anything in Botswana that could get both an American company and a Chinese company so excited that they might be willing to go to extremes to get hold of it?”
There was a pause as Cretchley thought about the question. “Well, a really large deposit of almost anything could be worth a lot of money,” he said, “but the only deposit I’d be excited about would be rare earths. The issue would be grade. High-grade prospects, especially of the so-called heavy rare earths, would be significant. There are a couple of new mines being developed in South Africa, which used to be one of the world’s important producers. Can you tell me where we’re talking about?”
“An existing uranium mine near Shoshong in east central Botswana wants to expand, and there’s a group from Texas, I believe, who want to start a new mine in the same area. The Americans have told me that their interest is uranium. But there seems to be too much excitement for just uranium.”
Cretchley was quiet for a few moments. “I seem to recall that a couple of rare-earth prospects are being investigated north of Francistown. That’s pretty much right where you’re talking about.”
Kubu felt a twinge of excitement. “But what are these rare earths? I haven’t heard about them.”
“Well, you’re obviously not in the minerals business! Actually, the name’s a bit of a misnomer because most of these elements aren’t rare at all. The problem with them is that they aren’t often concentrated sufficiently to make mining them economical. And there’s a big demand because they’re used in all the important industries these days. Batteries for green energy. Phosphors for long-life lights. For computer screens and smartphone screens. You get the picture. This is a big deal.”
“So they’re really valuable?”
“It’s more than that. They’re hard to get. Ninety-five percent comes from China these days, and the Chinese watch them like a hawk.”
Now Kubu was getting really interested. “The Chinese have most of these minerals?”
“Indeed. And they’re not shy about throwing their weight around.”
Kubu frowned. “But then they wouldn’t be interested in a prospect in Botswana, would they?”
“On the contrary. They want to control the market. In 2011, they imposed export quotas on their rare earths, and the prices rocketed. And they’re clamping down hard on illegal exports. It’s the sort of thing you get executed for. A lot of businesses were forced to move to China to get access to them. And guess who’s partnered in the new South African development.”
“The Chinese?”
“Exactly right. So they’d be very interested in a new discovery in Botswana. Especially if it were a rich one.”
“And,” Kubu mused, “I guess you people would be very interested in a big new source not from China?”
“Certainly would.” He paused, then continued, “Rare earths are often found in proximity to uranium, so it’s a real possibility. If that’s what they’ve found, I’m not surprised they’re doing everything they can to get their hands on them.”
“That might also explain why they’re talking about uranium, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t want anyone to know about it.”
“That’s right. If your Department of Mines knew, they’d work out a joint-venture type of arrangement like it has with De Beers—where the country really benefited from what was mined—in an open market.”
They chatted for a few minutes, and after he’d thanked the professor for his time and insights, Kubu hung up. He was now convinced that the presence of rare earths would be a powerful reason for what had happened—the murder of Kunene and the attack on Newsom, the apparent corruption within the Department of Mines, and the riot at the kgotla in Shoshong.
Kubu thought about the ramifications of a rare-earth discovery for a few minutes and became more and more convinced that it could be the motive underlying the various events. He needed to speak to Mabaku as soon as possible.
However, there was one thing that the discovery of rare earths would not explain—the murder of his father.
CHAPTER 43
By the time Kubu had finished talking to Professor Cretchley, it was too late to call Mabaku. He would be asleep. Then Kubu smiled. He’d call really early Botswana time to get a little payback for being sent to New York. So he had a few hours to kill—an opportunity to explore the city, he thought.
So he bundled up and, for the next five hours, became a tourist—the Empire State Building, the observation area of which was probably higher than any point in Botswana; a carriage ride through Central Park, Kubu covered with extra blankets, listening to a sound he’d never heard before—the clip-clop of hooves—and wishing Joy was with him; a walk to Rockefeller Center with its Radio City Music Hall and outdoor skating rink, where hundreds of people floated in circles, scarves flying, and a group of Chinese tourists giggled as they kept falling down. He even bought a huge, salty pretzel from a vendor on the sidewalk and managed to eat the whole thing despite its lack of taste.
He ended up wandering around Times Square, where he could see more lights than existed in his whole country and where he could feel the bustle and buzz of the theater district. Eventually, exhausted from his sightseeing, he found a small restaurant for a light dinner. But when he looked at the menu, he found that he wasn’t tempted by the New York strip steaks or a rack of ribs and ended up ordering a carrot cake and a cup of coffee. As he waited for it to be served, he reflected that he had not thought of his father and the search for his murderer since he left the hotel. Will there come a time, he wondered, when I can go through a whole day or a whole week without thinking of him? It didn’t seem possible.
The waitress arrived with a cup of coffee and a gigantic slice of cake. “Enjoy!” she said with a big smile as she put them down in front of him. Kubu lifted his fork and decided he would do as instructed.
* * *
WHILE HE WAITED back at the hotel for the time in Botswana to get late enough to phone Mabaku, Kubu played with Google to investigate rare earths. The more he read, the more intrigued he became. Apparently, only the financial collapse had rescued the rare-earth market from China’s grip. The slowing world economy had allowed the prices to fall. But the Chinese had a long-term view and plenty of time. And prices were rising again. What China couldn’t allow was a huge discovery outside its control.
Kubu checked his watch and phoned the director.
“Mabaku.” He sounded half-asleep.
“It’s Kubu, Director. I’m sorry to phone so early, but it’s already half-past eleven here in New York, and I need a good night’s sleep because I’m giving your presentation at nine in the morning.”
“I assume you’ve called for reason. What is it?”
For the next few minutes, Kubu told Mabaku of his meeting with Newsom, telling him of Newsom’s allegations of Mopati’s corruption and giving a brief synopsis of the recording Newsom had given him. He also told the director how Newsom had paid Kunene for information—probably about Mopati’s dealings with the Konshua Mine.
Mabaku listened without interrupting, but Kubu could almost feel the handset heating up the longer he spoke. Mabaku, Kubu knew, was very proud of how his country had pulled itself up from being one of the poorest countries in Africa to one of the most prosperous and well run. So even the hint of corruption in a government official put him in a foul mood.
“Where did Newsom get this fucking tape?” Mabaku asked at the end of the story.
“Good question. And how come he’s so well connected at the United States embassy? And why can’t we trace his calls to Kunene?” Kubu paused. “He’s not just a mining engineer. I think he work
s for the CIA or some similar agency.”
Mabaku grunted. “This gets better and better.”
“But there’s something else,” Kubu continued. “One of the things I learned today at the conference was that countries like Germany and Denmark are closing all their nuclear power plants. I thought it strange that Newsom and the Konshua Mine would be going to such lengths to get access to more uranium in what appears to be a declining market. So I called an old geologist friend of mine here in the States and asked him. He also thought it was unlikely that they were after more uranium.”
“So what are they after?” Mabaku growled.
“He suggested it could be rare earths. I spent a bit of time looking them up on the Internet. Every major industry uses them these days. You don’t need a lot, but you have to have them. And, guess what? China controls almost all of the world’s supply, and other countries are scrambling to find sources for themselves. That would explain why both the Americans and Chinese are so interested. I think they were planning to say they were mining uranium and then take the more important rare earths out of the country without telling us.”
“So where do we go from here?” Mabaku asked.
“I had a free evening, Director, and gave it a lot of thought. This is what I suggest,” Kubu said. “Although the voices on Newsom’s recording sound like Mopati and the Chinese mine official I spoke to, we don’t know for certain that it is them. I think our first step is to be certain of that. I think I know how to do that. Then, if it is them, we need to get a legal recording that we can use either in or out of court. I have a suggestion on how to do that too.”
Then, for the next few minutes, Kubu outlined his plan, answering all of Mabaku’s various questions and objections. When he finished, there was a long silence.
Eventually, Mabaku spoke. “It’s risky, but I don’t see a better alternative. E-mail me the recording, and I’ll go and see the commissioner as soon as I can. There’s a senior government official involved, so we can’t do this without him knowing about it.” He paused. “I think he’ll go along with it—he hates corruption almost as much as I do.”
There was a pause, and then Mabaku continued, “I have something for you. Two of the suspects we’re holding for murder during the riot have told us that they were paid by some unknown man to cause trouble at the kgotla, to stir the men up. Of course, they deny any involvement in the killings, but we have strong evidence against them.”
“Who do you think is behind it?” Kubu asked.
“We’ve no idea at the moment. Could be the mine. Could be the chief’s son. After what you’ve told me, it could also be Newsom. Who knows, but we’re working on it.”
“I can’t wait to get back and work on the case, Director,” Kubu said quietly. “If you’ll let me.”
Mabaku grunted and hung up, leaving Kubu feeling far away from everything he loved.
* * *
KUBU’S PHONE CALL had put Director Mabaku into a foul temper, so he was keen to move on the plan immediately. This is too important, he thought, to talk to the commissioner by phone. I need to speak to him face-to-face. The problem was that Mabaku was in Shoshong and the commissioner in Gaborone. So Mabaku dressed, grabbed a cup of coffee, and set off for the capital.
At eight o’clock, he called the commissioner’s office from the car to make an appointment.
“The earliest he can see you, Director, is tomorrow afternoon,” the commissioner’s assistant said.
Mabaku contained his irritation and replied that the issue was urgent and couldn’t wait. “This is of national importance,” he said. “It could have an impact on the president’s visit to Shoshong next week.”
“I’ll speak to him and get back to you,” came the reply.
Mabaku gritted his teeth and hung up. And for the next hour, he tried to keep his mind off what Kubu had said and on the road, where straying animals posed their usual risk.
* * *
NOTHING LIKE MENTIONING the president to get a high-up official’s attention, Mabaku thought as he arrived at the commissioner’s office a mere ninety minutes after his original phone call. And he only had to wait a few minutes before he was ushered into his boss’s office.
Mabaku had known the commissioner for many years and thought he was an honest man, even though he was too political for Mabaku’s taste.
“Sit down, Jacob,” the commissioner said. “I hope you are not going to tell me that the president will be in some sort of danger when he goes to Shoshong.”
“Not physical danger, Commissioner,” Mabaku replied, “but potentially political danger.”
The commissioner frowned. “It’s not like you to pay attention to politics, Jacob. Are you beginning to learn something in your old age? What’s up?”
For the next twenty minutes, Mabaku brought the commissioner up to speed on what Kubu had been told by Newsom, and he played the tape of the phone call supposedly between Mopati and the man at the Konshua Mine.
“The concern I have about the president’s visit to Shoshong next week, Commissioner, is that he will make some commitment to the mine to appease the young men who are out of work. Given what we have just heard, I think that would be premature.” He paused. “But I realize that I cannot suggest that the director of mines is corrupt unless I have incontrovertible evidence—which I don’t.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I want your permission to try to corroborate what is on the recording. The first step is to make sure the voices are of Mopati and the Chinaman. What I want to do is leave a message for both of them to call me. We’ll record their calls and do a voice match with what we have. If there is a match, then I want your permission to take the next step—that is, to see if I can get some evidence that they are working together in an unethical way…”
“And how will you do that?”
“I’ll meet with Mopati, ostensibly to update him on our investigation of the mine riot. During the meeting, I’ll tell him we have evidence that his deputy, Kunene, had been in the pay of the Americans and that he had been providing them with information about the tenders for the Shoshong mining concession. I’m hoping that he’ll be so excited that we’re investigating Kunene that he’ll rush to tell his Chinese friends. I’ll need you to get authorization for wiretaps on the business and private phones of both Mopati and the Chinaman, Shonhu.”
“Based on the flimsy evidence you have or may get?”
Mabaku nodded. “Commissioner, we can’t have this sort of thing undermine the progress Botswana has made. I’m sure you know someone you can persuade to give us this.”
The commissioner sat silent for a few moments, then nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
AS HE DROVE back to CID headquarters, Mabaku pondered how to get Shonhu and Mopati on tape without raising suspicions. Mopati would be easy. He would contact him and arrange a meeting for the following day. He was sure there’d be enough conversation to compare it to the voice on Newsom’s recording.
How to deal with Shonhu was more difficult. If he were to contact Shonhu directly, it might raise suspicions that the police were onto something. He didn’t want that. He pondered various other alternatives and eventually decided that his assistant, Miriam, could speak to Shonhu under the pretext of inquiring whether he and the mine manager would be at the kgotla when the president spoke the following Sunday—the police wanted to be sure that they had all security issues covered. Again, Mabaku thought that they’d be able to get sufficient conversation to make a comparison possible.
He’d just settled down to handle the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated after the Shoshong riot when his phone buzzed. “It’s the director of mines,” Miriam said. There was a click, and Mabaku greeted Mopati and introduced himself. When the pleasantries were over, he said, “Director, I would like to brief you tomorrow about some of our findings concerning the kgotla fiasco. It’s better done in person, and it’s rather urgent. What time would suit y
ou?” After a few moments of trying to coordinate schedules, they agreed on a time late the following afternoon and hung up.
That’s plenty for the voice comparison, Mabaku thought with satisfaction, and returned to his pile of papers.
About half an hour later, Miriam walked into his office with a smile and said that she’d recorded several minutes of conversation with Shonhu, the Chinese mine executive.
“Excellent,” Mabaku said. “Please send both recordings to Zanele immediately. Please tell her I want her results back tomorrow morning.”
He walked over to the window overlooking Kgale Hill and searched for the troop of baboons that often came into the CID parking lot looking for scraps of food, but they were nowhere to be seen. A pity, he thought. I like them more than some of the people I have to deal with. He turned and sat down at his desk. I wonder what tomorrow will bring, he thought as he picked up the next file needing attention.
CHAPTER 44
In the first session of the conference on Thursday morning, Kubu gave Mabaku’s paper. He was very nervous, not only about speaking in front of a large and critical audience but also about being faced with questions he might not be able to answer. However, Mabaku’s topic—the challenges of using high-tech detection and forensics in a developing country—appealed to many of the smaller and less affluent nations represented, whose problems were far away from art theft and nuclear power waste. The applause was warm, and the questions friendly and asked with genuine interest. Kubu enjoyed his moment in the limelight and returned to his seat with a warm feeling of a job well done. At least here, he’d not let Mabaku down.
His good mood was enhanced by the fact that he’d managed to change his flight to leave that evening. He’d persuaded himself that getting back to deal with the Mopati sting and what would develop from it was much more important than another day of boring talks. And returning to temperatures where you could walk outside without freezing was a bonus. However, he admitted to himself that the real reason for leaving a day early was that he wanted to get home. New York was great, and he was glad he’d had the opportunity to see a tiny part of it, but he wanted to be with his family. The next time I come to America, he thought, we’ll come together and take the girls to Disney World! He knew it wouldn’t happen—the cost would be far too high—but it was fun to dream.
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