Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller

by Ridgway, Brady

  ‘You know I can’t guarantee anything. You’re in South Africa for Christ’s sake. Anything could happen.’

  ‘Well that’s a chance you’re going to have to take. Oh and by the way, I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess of my room. I’m sure you’ve got people out here who can clean it up.’ I cut the connection.

  I set an alarm for seven the next morning and fell asleep almost immediately. Not even the thought of Boris in the bath disturbed my dreams. I slept so deeply that when my alarm woke me four hours later I had no idea where I was.

  I fumbled in the dark for the phone, cancelled the alarm. I couldn’t find the light switch so I blundered out of bed towards the sliver of light that was the chink in the curtains. Thankfully the tinted glass cladding of the hotel muted the morning sun. I saw the airport and remembered. The events of the previous evening came pummelling back. My body ached. Every time I moved I found new pain.

  The room didn’t look too bad: the lampshade on the bedside lamp was a bit skew but apart from that there was little sign of the battle the night before. The desk chair was missing. For a moment I couldn’t recall what had happened to it; then I remembered that it was still in the bath with Boris. I went through to the bathroom. He was where I had left him, on his back at the bottom of the bath. A smudge of red floated in the water just above his face. To be honest, I was a little surprised to see him; I’d half believed that it had all been a bad dream.

  If Boris was not proof enough, my reflection in the bathroom mirror confirmed everything. My left eye had swollen to the size of a golf ball and was displaying more colours than a peacock’s tail. The gouge under the other eye was red, swollen and oozing. I examined the rest of my body. There were small cuts and abrasions everywhere. My knuckles were skinned and I noticed for the first time that my left hand was beginning to swell. I worked it over, checking each knuckle in turn. The one on my little finger was tender, I had probably fractured the bone; but I could still use it.

  Then I went through Boris’ pockets. There was a roll of dollar bills. I’d been forced to bring euros, but dollars were the unofficial African currency so I pocketed them. I left the few rand he had. His gun wasn’t any use to me either. There was no way I would be able to get it on the plane, too risky to put it in a check-in bag, so I dropped it on his chest where it would be easy to find.

  Fortunately there was a separate shower in the bathroom otherwise I would have had to find a place to put Boris while I bathed. There wasn’t room for two of us in there.

  When I was all cleaned up, and ready to go I pulled the plug in the bath. For a moment I thought of pulling Boris out and laying him on the bed, but he was all wet so I left him there. I suppose that I could have undressed him, tried to make it look like he had drowned while bathing, but considering his missing nose, that scenario wouldn’t have fooled a brain damaged detective for two minutes, so I didn’t bother. I did leave the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside of the door in the hope that I would be safely out of the country before anyone tried to make up the room.

  Of course I hoped that Bob would send his sweepers to clean up the mess and dispose of Boris, but I couldn’t be sure that that would happen. One thing was for sure: Pavel Kalik had visited Johannesburg for the last time.

  Chapter 37

  I took the hotel bus back to the airport, went straight to the departure desk, checked in. Once I was safely through immigration and in International Departures I began to relax: but not completely. Although I was technically in international territory, I knew that if some cleaner ignored the sign on the door - found the sunken Boris and ran screaming down the passage - that the South African Police wouldn’t think twice about dragging my arse back through immigration to some small dark cell that I would have to share with a number of HIV positive hijackers, rapists and murderers. It wouldn’t be until the aircraft had safely touched down in the Congo that I would be completely free of their clutches.

  I had a bad moment at immigration. The official kept looking at my photograph, back at me, then at the photograph again. I thought I’d been rumbled, thought that Boris had been found, thought that I might be staying in South Africa for a long time. The immigration official looked me straight in the eye and asked, ‘What happened to your face?’

  I smiled, winced – even smiling hurt - ‘I cut myself shaving.’

  That could have gone either way. Lucky for me he just shook his head, laughed, looked at my boarding pass, ‘You had better be careful in the Congo. You don’t want to cut yourself shaving there,’ and handed me back my passport.

  I bought a couple of shirts to replace the one that Boris had destroyed, went to the pharmacy and stocked up on Savlon and bandages for my wounds. I spread out all my acquisitions in a nearby bathroom, washed and dressed the gouge under my eye, bathed and disinfected all the other cuts and abrasions.

  There was nothing else to do but wait so, although it was still early - before ten in the morning - I decided that I needed a drink. I found a stool at a trendy bar overlooking the apron. The only Czech beer they had was Pilsner Urquell. I ordered one of those, sat there sipping it, watched the arrival of a succession of wide bodies, mostly South African Airways - but also others like Lufthansa, Air France and Emirates - touch down after their long night over the Dark Continent.

  When it came time for boarding we were bussed to the aircraft: a regional jet belonging to one of the smaller carriers. I had a window seat near the front, but never saw the view. I was asleep before take-off and only woke again on the descent when the seat belt lights dinged on.

  I wiped the dribble from my chin and peered out the window. The Congo was as green as England, with none of the obvious signs of civilisation. An occasional ochre dirt road cut through the green; every now and then a group of huts appeared: each small cluster surrounded by myriad paths leading from it, all criss-crossing each other, fading to single spindly tendrils that disappeared into the surrounding bush.

  All around us grey columns of rain fell, each one dumping thousands of litres onto the already saturated earth. As the descending airplane weaved between the rain towers, details of the earth began to appear.

  What had appeared as dots on the landscape grew to huge anthills, some with trees growing from them. Lubumbashi emerged, sprawled amid trees. It looked abandoned.

  There was a whine of flaps being extended, the rumble of the landing gear going down, bushes flashed by beneath us, then the tarmac: grey and scarred. I looked expectantly through the window. The vintage terminal building, resplendent in a fresh coat of yellow, bore the unsmiling visage of Congo’s assassinated president: His Excellency Mzee Laurent Desire Kabila. Above him fluttered the flag of the Democratic Republic. The republic was about as democratic as the flag’s previous owner, the Force Publique, Belgium’s colonial storm troopers.

  The door opened, allowed the dark air to slide in, filling the small cabin. Armpits secreted dank circles, brows glistened. We filed into the terminal building where an officious functionary, wearing a yellow star on each shoulder, stamped our passports one by one. My fax worked a charm. I had found it pushed under my door that morning. Written in French, it bore the seal and signature of the governor of Katanga. Yellow stars stiffened when he saw it, called his supervisor. I soon had a multiple-entry visa filling an entire page of my passport.

  Beyond the barriers anxious relatives waited, urchins wriggled amongst the crowd touting luxury taxi rides into town; a single signboard advertised my name, well Pavel Kalik’s name to be precise.

  The bearer was immaculately dressed in suit collar and tie; madness in that heat. On closer inspection the suit was a little threadbare with traces of its once-white lining showing at the cuffs. The collar of his shirt was frayed and soaked with sweat.

  ‘Mister Kalik?’ he had seen me looking at the board.

  ‘Oui. C’est moi.’

  ‘English please. My Flench is not vely good.’ He spoke like many Malawians, unable to get his tongue around the
‘r.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I held out my hand, ‘Pavel Kalik. You not from Lubumbashi then?’

  He carefully wiped the sweat from his hand before offering it to me, ‘Patlick Banda.’ We shook, then he tucked his board under one arm, deftly eased my suitcase from me, shepherded me through the jostling crowd to the parking area outside. ‘No. My family are from Zambia, but they came here many years ago.’

  ‘Do you work for Piet?’

  ‘No. He was unable to meet you in person and engaged my services.’ He extracted a grubby calling card from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. It identified him as Patrick Banda, CEO of Banda Luxury Limousines, Lubumbashi. The card was dog-eared, used and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to give it back. I thought that might be rude, so I kept it. Mister Banda pushed through the wooden doors to the parking lot. ‘I have a vehicle here. I will take you to the Puk Hotel where Mister Hanekom will meet you in the morning.’

  The vehicle in question was an ageing Mercedes in faded yellow. Although it had clearly lived a hard life it was spotlessly clean, something which could not be said of the other ‘luxury’ taxis lined up outside.

  Patrick lifted my suitcase on to a rusty roof rack. I glanced at the boot. He saw the look, ‘The lock is unfortunately bloken and I am unable to open it.’ I opened the door and slid onto the cracked leather seat in the back.

  Mister Banda guided us through the tree-lined lanes of the empty parking lot and onto the main road into town.

  There was a military checkpoint where the road left the airport premises: two bored soldiers slumped in rickety plastic chairs. A frayed piece of string hung listlessly between two fuel drums in a feeble attempt at barring our passage. The soldiers didn’t bother to get up. One languidly reached forward, flicked the string onto the ground. We drove on.

  Beyond the string there was nothing but open country. Tall elephant grass flanked the road. Where there were breaks in the grass, soaring anthills rose like giant boils from the earth, some towering above the trees.

  Not far from the airport there was a solitary row of houses. They were occupied, but had endured years of neglect. They probably had not seen a day of maintenance since their Belgian owners fled Katanga almost forty years before. Clay tiled roofs, blackened by mildew, pressed down on rotting rafters, dragged by gravity inexorably towards the floor. Here and there the rafters had lost the battle, plastic sheeting flapped lazily over the gaping holes. Most of the windows were broken.

  It was hot in the car. I leaned forward and shouted over the noise of the road, ‘This thing got air-conditioning?’

  ‘No.’ Patrick replied, ‘I’m aflaid it is tempolalily out of order.’

  Temporarily; yeah right. There was no window handle on my side, so I slid over to the other side and rolled the window down. It didn’t make me any cooler, but the breeze was welcome in the stuffy interior.

  As we approached the town, anthills gave way to mud huts standing shoulder to shoulder on the side of the road. They were built from the same red earth: square, topped with corrugated iron. Some were covered in crudely painted advertisements touting anything from Coca Cola to Air Zaire, the long-defunct national airline.

  Still no people though; only the occasional mangy dog or dusty chicken wandered between the huts. The huts pressed closer together as we neared the town. People appeared, most on the move: colourfully dressed women weighed down by heavy loads balanced on their heads. Others sat in the sunshine at alfresco hairdressing salons having their hair braided or clipped.

  In the middle of a traffic circle stood a dumpy statue of Kabila breaking the chains of oppression. I couldn’t decide if they were colonial chains or Mobuto’s, but we soon left him and the question behind.

  Beyond, high walls hid palatial colonial homes lining the wide Lubumbashi boulevard. There were fewer people there and not much traffic. But the traffic swelled again as we approached the centre of town; the press of humanity returned. None of the traffic lights were working; cars made their own way though the intersections in a jumble of hooting and excited gestures.

  Mister Banda pulled up outside a two-storey hotel that overlooked a small park bedraggled with blooming bougainvilleas. I climbed out, allowed him to carry my suitcase, direct me to reception. At least it was cooler inside. A combination of air-conditioning and languorous fans wafted the large wood-panelled reception.

  The whole place had an old world feel about it, from the fans to the wooden pigeonholes housing room keys attached to heavy brass holders, even the brass bell on the desk that summoned the receptionist.

  I thanked Mister Banda, gave him a generous tip to compensate for the loss of his calling card, struck the bell; waited.

  Chapter 38

  I was tired, nearly made the mistake of filling my own name on the check-in form, corrected myself in time, pulled out the passport, copied the details from that to make sure I got everything correct.

  The receptionist handed me the key together with an envelope with Pavel Kalik’s name typed on the front.

  The key led me to a suite on the first floor overlooking the park. Thankfully it was air-conditioned too. I would have been happy with a cardboard box as long as it was air-conditioned.

  I put my suitcase down and opened the envelope.

  ‘Hi ‘Pavel,’

  Sorry I couldn’t meet you, something came up. I’ll collect you from the hotel at nine tomorrow morning.

  Piet.’

  Good old Piet: short and to the point.

  I looked around my quarters. The lounge dwarfed the room’s sparse furnishings: a small settee, a coffee table and a television set on a glass stand. The adjoining bedroom was en-suite with a double bed and a large wooden cupboard. Both rooms had impossibly high ornate stucco ceilings and wide balconies overlooking the park across the street.

  I hung the obligatory ‘Do not Disturb’ sign on the door, stripped off, showered, slipped between the cool cotton sheets.

  When I woke it was dark outside. My watch told me that it was eight o’clock, but I wasn’t sure if that meant morning or evening. I guessed evening, as by eight in the morning it should be light already. I eased my battered body from the bed, dressed for dinner.

  I emptied the contents of my suitcase onto the bed, laid everything out carefully so that I could make a selection. I noticed that the pants I had been wearing had blood on them; Boris’ or mine, I chucked them in the bin.

  I chose a navy blue golf shirt, a pair of khaki chinos and my gay boots. I was still as stiff as hell but after I had showered again and dressed I felt as good as a man can feel after having gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson.

  Unfortunately the mirror confirmed that I still looked like a thug, but there was nothing that I could do about that, so I went downstairs for a drink and something to eat.

  The bar was hot and stuffy. I followed the sounds of music and found a band playing in a small courtyard with tables lining the walls. In the centre a huge bougainvillea resplendent in purple blooms overgrew a disconsolate fountain.

  I chose a table near the entrance, surveyed the other patrons. Most were Congolese. Four young women sat two tables away from me; all were heavily made up. They were clearly on the prowl, dressed in figure-hugging short skirts and tops that accentuated the swell and divide of their breasts. There were no drinks on the table in front of them; they were waiting for someone else to buy them.

  I avoided any eye contact: it’s an invitation to an endless chatter of conversation, a groped groin and admittance to a world of incurable disease and death. Not without reason, they were known throughout Africa as Night Fighters.

  I felt sorry for them. In a continent filled with grinding poverty they were using the only means they had that could, for a moment, elevate them above their circumstances. But I didn’t feel the need to assist their cause, studiously ignored their fluttering enticement. Anyway, there was something else in the courtyard that had caught my attention. Against the opposite wall, sitting alone near
the band, was one of the most gorgeous women I had ever seen. Well perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but you don’t often see the stunners in the Heart of Darkness, and she was exceptional.

  She had long blond hair, was dressed in a light grey suit and was sipping her drink with a nonchalance that indicated that she was alone and comfortable with it. My antennae began to twitch.

  Yes I know: the CIA held Martina hostage. I should not have been looking at other women, should not have even been looking at one, not the way I was looking at that one anyway. But I’m a dog; I know that.

  She caught me looking at her, smiled. I smiled back, you know, that polite non-committal smile of acknowledgement. I ordered a Primus - the local beer - and waited, careful not to look at the blond again; even more careful not to look at the chattering ensemble of night fighters trying desperately to catch my eye. One had even moved away from the table, towards the fountain, moved into my line of sight. It was all I could do not to look directly at her.

  My drink was half finished, time to make my move. It was a toss-up between moving too soon and waiting too long and have the blond get up and leave. I picked up my beer, wandered across the courtyard towards her. She didn’t show any sign of having noticed my approach. For a moment I faltered. What if I got to her table and she ignored me, the way I had been ignoring the night fighters. I would look a right pillock.