Ashanti Gold

by James Crosbie

‘How’s that?’ Bert looked at him, puzzled. ‘The way these fucking locals drive I should imagine road accidents are common out here.’

  ‘Exactly! And because they’re common they’ll be used to the type and severity of injuries sustained. Doc fell more than half a mile out of the sky. You wouldn’t get broken up like that if a car hit you.’

  ‘Got any better ideas?’

  ‘It’s got to be a fall!’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Have to be. It’s the only way the injuries will be consistent.’

  ‘Christ,’ Bert stared, as if seeing Ray for the first time. ‘You’re a right callous bastard.’

  ‘C’mon Bert,’ Ray pleaded. ‘We’re talking survival here. If they become suspicious about his death they won’t be long adding two and two together; they’re not stupid you know. We’re talking about our lives here. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  Bert sat quiet, seeing the sense in the argument but hating himself for being part of it – for making himself part of it. He nodded soberly, features rigid. ‘Yeah,’ he mouthed the word almost silently. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He straightened in his seat. ‘What are we arguing about anyway? We’ve not even made it to Accra yet.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Ray said. ‘And I’ve a feeling we might be all right. We’re clear of Cape Coast and there are only a couple of villages between here and Accra. That roadblock you saw must have been the only one they could find the manpower for in a hurry. It’ll be different once they get themselves organised.’ His foot pressed harder on the accelerator.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Bert spoke sincerely. ‘I hope to fuck you’re right.’

  *

  They were entering the industrial outskirts of the city when the first convoy of police and army vehicles shrieked by, frenziedly caterwauling up the centre-line of the highway, anxiously flickering blue lights and flashing headlamps, forcing traffic to swerve wildly to avoid their furious passage.

  It was almost 6.30pm, the last of the daylight gone, when Ray found his way into the car park of the Ambassador Hotel. Bert went quickly to the room he should have been sharing with Doc and collected some supporter’s regalia.

  Feeling like ghouls, they draped Doc in a red, white and blue scarf, set a Union Jack-patterned cap on his head and pinned an enormous, patriotic rosette on his chest. They waited until a mob of roistering Cooper fans approached the entrance and, supporting Doc between them, they entered the foyer, mixing with the crowd, just another trio of drunken supporters. No one paid any attention as they staggered into the lift and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

  Inside the room, they cut the jump suit from Doc’s body and liberally sprinkled whisky on his face and chest, leaving the open bottle on the table next to a half-filled glass.

  ‘Jesus,’ Bert wiped his sweating forehead. ‘Why didn’t we just leave him below the window? This … this is fucking awful.’

  ‘Witnesses, Bert. We need real live witnesses for this. It’s got to look like a genuine accident.’

  ‘Oh, shit … I know,’ he grimaced. ‘It just seems so … so cold-blooded.’

  ‘Got to be done.’ Ray’s voice was steady. ‘And talking of witnesses, you better get yourself downstairs and into the bar.’

  ‘Downstairs to the bar?’

  ‘Yeah. And put yourself about a bit. Make sure you’re noticed. That way the law won’t bother you with too many questions.’

  ‘Jesus, you are a cool bastard,’ Bert admitted, shaking his head.

  ‘I’ve had the best training in the world,’ Ray told him. ‘Now, move! On your way. I’ll do the necessary with Doc.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that anyway,’ Bert said, moving to the door. ‘How long will I give you?’

  ‘You’ll know how long when the screaming starts. Now hurry up before I lose my fucking nerve and end up drunk myself. I’ll give you five minutes to establish your presence in the bar – then it’s a go. I’ll sneak back to my own hotel when I’ve … finished.’

  Five minutes later Ray was ready. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He squeezed Doc’s shoulder as if he was still alive and carefully toppled his body into the night. Seconds later, just as Bert was loudly ordering a drink in the lounge, the screaming started.

  28

  Colin drove the Peugeot into the garage behind his uncle’s bungalow, switched off the engine and cradled his head in his arms against the steering wheel with a long, drawn-out sigh. He had always thought the firm could do it and now they had, but at what cost? He sighed again, thinking of Doc and his cheery, slapdash attitude to life. At this very moment he would have swapped all the gold in the world if it could have brought his friend back. Yes, and considered it a good exchange too. For the first time in his life he sincerely regretted his involvement in villainy. Since the moment of Doc’s death he had been too preoccupied with his own safety to think of anything other than getting clear with the booty. But now, in the safety and coolness of the darkened garage, Doc occupied his thoughts infinitely more than the gold did. At last he stirred himself. Recriminations would do no good. They had the gold and he could start to think of the future. All he had to do was get it home and he could begin a future free from the dangers of crime. A future with Lesley. Poor old Doc, he sighed again. One of the best.

  He made sure that the distinctive green boxes were out of sight under the folds of parachute material before locking the car and going into the bungalow.

  The Cooper-Alloteh fight almost faded into insignificance against the challenge of the hijacking. Radio and television programmes were constantly interrupted as fresh information was released; each more distorted than the one before as newscasters vied for an exclusive. All that was really certain was that flight GA 670 from Kumasi had been hijacked and robbed of its cargo of gold bullion and the white mercenaries, terrorists, or criminals – as they were indiscriminately labelled – had parachuted to safety with their loot. A gigantic manhunt was in progress along the central coastal region and there were high hopes of an early arrest.

  *

  ‘Professionals, Colin. Professionals. That’s what they were. Paid mercenaries recruited by one of the antigovernment factions. A political group tried to steal the gold from the mine last year, you know. But it all went rather badly for them.’

  ‘I heard they were shot.’

  ‘True,’ George nodded sadly. ‘But not so much for trying to steal the gold, as the purpose they intended to put it to.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Anti-government propaganda. Publicising political activities. Exposing corruption and organising rallies, all that sort of thing. And with the state the country’s in right now the situation is ripe for another coup. All that’s been missing is something to set it off, and this gold robbery could very well be the spark that ignites it.’

  Colin nodded in agreement with everything George said, fervently hoping that this was the line being taken by the authorities. It would divert enquiries from the purely criminal aspect of the robbery.

  Later, as he was sipping a welcome beer on the verandah after dinner, George asked him about his plans for the evening.

  ‘You’ll be coming along to the club tonight?’ he queried. ‘They’ve managed to arrange one of these TV projectors with a satellite link-up; it’ll be as good as a ringside seat.’

  ‘I heard about it,’ Colin told him. ‘But it’s being beamed straight into the Princess on the big screen, and that’ll be ten times better than the club’s set up.’

  ‘The Princess! My God, the place will be packed with screaming locals! We’ve even had to give the back-shift the evening off and close down the mill. It’ll be bedlam down there tonight.’

  ‘No more so than the stadium itself,’ Colin countered. ‘Besides, the crowd’s all part of the big fight atmosphere. It’ll be more like the real thing.’

  ‘You don’t have to make excuses, m’lad.’ George rose from his chair. ‘You please yourself where you go to watch the fight.
But it does seem to me that you’ve been spending a bit too much time with the Africans lately.’ It was as close as he had ever come to telling him off and Colin had nothing to say as the door closed on him. Ten minutes later George emerged from his room, ready to leave for the club.

  ‘Just watch yourself.’ His voice was friendlier now. ‘These Africans can become very excitable you know.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’ Colin thankfully accepted the olive branch. ‘Once the fight’s over I’ll come along to the club for the party.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ George’s voice expressed pleasure. ‘I’ll be looking for you. But don’t leave it too late or that mob down there will have finished off all the beer!’ He threw the warning over his shoulder as he got into his car, leaving a friendly ‘parp parp’ hanging in the air as he drove away.

  *

  The factory was deserted when Colin parked his car at the entrance to the loading-bay and made his way to the packing section. Once there, he selected twenty empty cartons from the store, placing one of them in position under the nozzle of the cocoa butter tap and pulled the lever, keenly watching the scales. At six kilos the carton contained a four-inch layer of butter and within ten minutes the rest of the cartons contained a similar amount. When he was finished he wheeled the twenty part-filled cartons into the refrigerator and hurried back to his car; he still had plenty to do while the butter hardened.

  It took three trips to pile the gear in front of the oil-fired furnace and a further five minutes to stuff everything through an inspection hatch into the roaring inferno. Parachutes, harnesses, jumpsuits, gloves, helmets and goggles were all fed into the searing flames and he watched as the flimsy, swirling materials of the canopy and lines flash-burned into a fine ash. The heavier canvas harnesses took a little longer, but in a couple of minutes only the metal buckles and fasteners were left glowing hotly on the floor of the furnace. Finally he reached inside with a long, metal, rake-like tool and fished out the melting metal parts, hosing them down with cold water before carrying them back to his car to put them into a bag that already contained the guns used in the robbery. Now he turned his attention to the bullion boxes, their thick rope handles making carrying easy. With one in either hand he made ten trips between his car and the packing section.

  Every time he forced one of the wooden boxes open Colin just couldn’t help grinning in satisfaction, the sight of the gold even making him forget for the moment his sadness at Doc’s death. Pick up a bar and you can keep it. He could hear Fred O’Hara’s voice in his head and he laughed aloud, counting: ‘One, two, three, four …’ until twenty bars of gleaming Ashanti gold winked back at him from the table he had stacked them on.

  Ready now, he brought the part-filled cartons through from the refrigerator section and placed one of them in position under the cocoa butter valve. Working quickly, he lowered a gold bar onto the layer of hardened butter and opened the valve, using the skills he had gained at his practice sessions to cut off the flow at precisely twenty-five kilos. A frown crossed his face; he had not considered the weight-to-mass ratio of the gold and the carton was barely half full. As soon as any weight went on top of the carton it would collapse – a dead giveaway.

  Swearing to himself, he studied the problem. Maybe he was working too fast. He took deep breaths in an effort to slow his pounding heart and began to think things out. Finally he went into the bagging area and brought back a number of the large hessian sacks. Rolling up his sleeves, he plunged both arms into the carton and grabbed the hidden bar. Obuasi again! The heavy bar, slippery with butter, refused to budge. He tried forcing his fingers under the gold, but the layer of frozen butter was too hard. His arms coated to the elbow, he stopped to reconsider.

  Slow … Slow … he told himself. Think it out. He picked up one of the hessian sacks and pushed it down into the soft cocoa butter, kneading the loosely woven cloth in the thick, viscous cream so that it was soon soaked through, causing the level of the cocoa butter in the carton to rise substantially. Two more of the sacks brought the butter level up to the carton’s rim and added only a few ounces to the total weight. When the cocoa butter hardened the saturated sacks would give enough strength to prevent the boxes from buckling too easily, and he would help matters by seeing that the finished packages were placed on the top layer in the cargo hold. Colin was satisfied with the job and attended to the remaining cartons in the same way. By 10.30pm the prepared cartons were back in the refrigerator. Sweating hard, he collected the broken bullion boxes and carried them to the furnace, watching as they disappeared in a blazing inferno. A final inspection of the weighing room for any incriminating evidence and he headed for his car, hurrying so that he could catch the last few rounds of the fight and make people aware of his presence.

  On his way to the Princess he made a short detour and lobbed the bag of guns and metal pieces into the deep, dark water of the harbour.

  29

  Bert didn’t need to pretend grief. Doc’s death had been a genuine blow and the subsequent handling of his body had affected him deeply. The huge police inspector was both sympathetic and censorious.

  ‘Your friend was obviously under the influence of strong drink,’ he said, his voice an impressive basso profundo. ‘I have your admission that you both spent the entire afternoon touring city bars and returned to your hotel to continue drinking in the evening.’ He shook his head, heavy jowls sagging on his sad face. ‘It is not surprising that such accidents occur.’

  ‘We didn’t drink that much,’ Bert said, feeling it would be natural to object a little. ‘Just a few beers and the odd glass of whisky. That’s all we had.’

  The inspector’s black Brillo pad of an eyebrow curved sceptically upwards. ‘Perhaps the heat affected him?’ the inspector suggested, not unkindly. ‘However, what is done cannot be undone and now I must ask you to formally identify the body.’

  Bert blanched, looking worse than ever. ‘Must I?’

  ‘I am sorry. But yes, it must be done.’

  ‘But you’ve got his passport … You know his identity.’

  ‘Formalities in Ghana are no different from those in your own country, sir. In fact it was your colonial ancestors who instituted such proceedings here, and our government saw no reason to alter them. As there are no members of the deceased’s family available, the duty falls upon you.’ His jowls quivered again and he rose to his feet, surprisingly light for a man of his bulk. ‘I would like the matter dealt with as soon as possible.’

  Bert’s reluctant face twisted uncomfortably. ‘Will his body be ready to go home once I’ve done the identification thing?’

  ‘I am sorry, sir. Your colonial predecessors were very pedantic about these formalities. First there will be an autopsy, then a hearing in the Coroner’s Court. I am afraid that it will be at least three days before the needs of bureaucracy are satisfied and the body of your friend is released either for burial or to be flown home.’ He flung a look at his wristwatch.

  ‘I have just enough time to take you to the morgue before I report for duty at the sports stadium.’ Fight time wasn’t very far away and, like most of the sports-minded citizens of Accra, the inspector intended to be there when the Ghanaian champion defeated the upstart challenger from England.

  30

  By the time Colin arrived at the sports club a rowdy party was in full swing, celebrating an easy eight-round knock-out by Cooper. His uncle waved to him, but he had already spotted Lesley and pushed his way towards her.

  ‘Hi!’ He gave a broad smile, the tension of the last few weeks erased by the success of his plan, his mind so involved in playing out his part that he had temporarily blanked the memory of Doc.

  Lesley stared at him for a long, wordless moment and he wondered at the troubled expression on her face.

  ‘I want to speak to you, Colin,’ she said, avoiding his arms as he stepped closer.

  ‘Yes?’ He stopped, feeling awkward, the rebuff registering and puzzling him.

  ‘Not
here.’ She moved towards the door which led to the living quarters, leaving him to follow on behind, her back stiff with disapproval.

  The living room was quiet after the revelry of the lounge and when she turned to face him, standing just out of his reach, her attitude warned him to keep his distance.

  She gave him a deep, searching look, making him feel uncomfortable as he tried to figure out what was bothering her.

  ‘Well?’ She spoke one word and compressed her lips into a tight red line.

  A wave of confusion swept over him. ‘Well what?’

  ‘Isn’t there something you want to tell me, Colin?’ Her face was a mask of accusation.

  ‘Tell you what?’ He looked at her, his brain racing, trying to figure out what had provoked her attitude. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Colin!’ Her whole body stamped at him.

  Christ! He thought. Surely she can’t suspect me of … No! He dismissed the burgeoning thought. How could she? But, then again, what else was there? He stared into her eyes, seeing both pain and concern in them.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he finally answered.

  ‘Why are you telling me lies, Colin?’ She clasped her hands in front of her chest, creating a barrier between them.

  He searched his mind for some clue to her behaviour, the feeling growing in him that the only possible explanation was the robbery. He continued to stare at her and felt trapped. What if it was just a jealous tantrum? He had neglected her more than just a little over the last few weeks. That must be it, he told himself. It couldn’t be the robbery.

  ‘Look, Lesley.’ He moved closer and reached for one of her hands. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been much company for you lately.’

  She snatched her hand back. ‘Why can’t you tell me what you have done?’

  He felt the snare tighten, yet still clung to the hope that it was something else that was troubling her. He searched for a way to resolve his predicament without making an outright admission.