“Where have you been in Botswana?” he asked.
The man shrugged. “Kasane,” he said.
“Anywhere else?” The man had been in Botswana for over a month.
“Come from Luanda,” the man said, apparently not understanding the question.
“What do you do?” Pule suspected the man of working without a work permit.
“Holiday.”
“What do you do for work?”
“Seaman. In Luanda. Work docks.”
Well, it was unlikely that he’d been doing that in Botswana. The closest Botswana came to the sea was the Bushman painting of a whale in the Tsodillo Hills. Pule’s intuition told him that something was wrong, but it was nearly lunchtime. Let Zimbabwe have the problem. He reached for his rubber stamp, trying to find a blank page for the imprint. The passport eluded his one-handed attempt and flipped to the front page. Pule looked at the picture again, his stamp poised for action. Of course, that was it. In the black-and-white passport photo, Vasconcelos had a heavy beard; now he was clean-shaven. That was what looked wrong about his face; his cheeks and neck were much lighter than the rest of it. The beard had come off very recently.
“Beard?” he asked the man casually, touching his own cheeks.
Vasconcelos laughed. “Hot!” he said. He pretended to cut it off, with two fingers of his right hand playing scissors. Pule wasn’t amused. He had noticed the ginger hair on the man’s arm. The midday stubble looked ginger too. The top of his head was smooth and brown—bald, not shaven.
He got up and directed the man toward a side door. “This way, please. Just a short routine check.”
Vasconcelos looked alarmed. “Bus! Me on bus!” He pointed in the direction of the parking lot.
“Don’t worry. Bus will wait. Just five minutes.” Pule held up five fingers to confirm this. Reluctantly the man followed him into the supervisor’s office.
Speaking quietly in Setswana, Pule told his supervisor about his suspicions. “And the police in Gaborone are looking for a bald man with a heavy red beard from Angola. He fits the physical description too.”
“What would he be doing up here? It’s two days’ drive to Gaborone.”
Pule shrugged. “He doesn’t speak much English.”
“Go and get Rosa. Her family came from Angola. She speaks Portuguese.”
Pule nodded and left to fetch her.
“Sit down,” the supervisor told Vasconcelos. He waved to the chair when there was no response. Vasconcelos looked very agitated. “Miss bus,” he said loudly. “Victoria Falls. Miss bus.” He approached the immigration officer as he said this and suddenly pointed to the door and shouted, “Bus!” as if it was about to join them in the office. Despite himself, the officer looked over his shoulder. And in that moment of inattention, Red Beard hit him.
Having quickly retrieved his passport, Red Beard left the office and walked casually out of Immigration as though his formalities were complete. He cursed himself for leaving his vehicle in Kasane. He had been sure he would have no trouble getting across the border on the bus to Zimbabwe. Now he was in trouble. He had only a few minutes at best before the immigration officer returned with Rosa. There was nowhere to hide in this tiny town. Somehow he had to get back to Kasane.
He saw a small Toyota parked nearby. An elderly man was locking the driver’s door. He seemed to be alone. Red Beard walked quickly up to him and pulled a knife from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Give me keys! No one gets hurt.” The man hesitated. “See that man over there?” Red Beard nodded toward a man dressed as a cleaner who was resting on a tree stump about twenty yards away. “He works with me. Give me keys, and you stay here quiet until he lets you go. Then you claim on insurance and get nice new Toyota. Otherwise you need funeral insurance.” He prodded the man’s ample stomach with the knife. The unfortunate man handed him the keys and started to back away. “But what about my luggage?” he asked plaintively. Red Beard laughed. He had already started the car.
He did a U-turn and accelerated away. He didn’t race but kept just above the speed limit. He would be back in Kasane in fifteen minutes. Once at his vehicle, he would have several options. He laughed again. Wait until they started to interrogate that cleaner!
However, as he rounded the bend toward Kasane, he saw soldiers spread out across the road. He had forgotten about the roadblock, but he had no alternative now. It couldn’t be more than five minutes since his escape from the immigration officer. Almost certainly they were still looking for him at Kazungula. He pulled up smoothly, rolled down the car window, and smiled. “Good afternoon,” he said. A couple of soldiers lounged behind their officer. They all looked relaxed.
“Good afternoon, sir. Just a routine check. Please turn off your engine and show us what is in your car boot. It will only take a minute.”
Red Beard turned off the engine and took out the keys. He might need them to open the boot. He hoped that the elderly little man wasn’t a smuggler. As soon as Red Beard got out of the car, the sergeant stepped back, and the two soldiers leveled their weapons at his chest. “Put your hands on your head and link the fingers together. If you move, my men will shoot you at once. Do you understand?” Red Beard nodded as he obeyed. He heard a two-way radio crackling in the background.
Kubu was feeling better. After a relaxed weekend, he was more philosophical about the deaths of the Hofmeyr twins. Neither was his fault; perhaps neither was avoidable. But he wanted resolution. Perhaps even revenge. And Edison burst in offering both.
“They’ve got him! They’ve got Red Beard!”
Kubu sat up. “Who’s got him? Where is he?”
“He’s in Kasane. In jail. Caught him trying to sneak out of Botswana at Kazungula. He got a bus from Kasane going to Vic Falls. Hoped to slip through as part of the crowd. One of the border guys remembered our alert and pulled him aside and started questioning him. He didn’t speak any English, or at least pretended not to. He went berserk. Punched the poor border guy. Knocked him cold. Then he made a run for it. Hijacked a vehicle parked at the border and headed back toward Kasane. The Immigration people radioed the police, and the army fortunately already had a roadblock in place. They picked him up just outside Kasane.”
“It has to be the right guy,” Kubu said with elation. “Nobody would run like that unless he thought he was in serious trouble. Made it worse for him too. We can throw the book at him just for the crimes he committed making his escape.” He took a deep breath. “It looks as though we have our first real break!”
“They got his bag off the UTC bus too. It had a pistol hidden in it. We shouldn’t be quite so critical of the border guys in the future,” Edison said. He displayed a wide array of perfect white teeth lighting up his dark face.
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Kubu said, laughing. “Edison, I’m off to Kasane first thing tomorrow. I’ll bring back the pistol in the evening. I want it tested against the bullet in the big black guy’s head as soon as possible. I’ll bet there’s a match. I must say I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Red Beard. He’s got a lot to tell us.”
Chapter 73
Cecil spent the weekend locked in his house, petrified that Red Beard would come after him. He would want his payoff—a lot of money. Money that Cecil didn’t have. Although he had little confidence that the two constables Mabaku had positioned outside would stop Red Beard, he was thankful they were there. They would at least make a break-in more difficult.
On Monday morning, Cecil had to get to work. He had an appointment with Tweedledee and Tweedledum. He sent one of the policemen to check the car and garage, and one of them accompanied him in the passenger seat.
At his office, Cecil sat at his desk, physically and emotionally drained. He asked Bongi, his new assistant, to bring him a big pot of coffee and drained three cups, one after the other.
When the caffeine kicked in, he roused himself and began thinking about the upcoming meeting with the government board members. He wondered w
hat Tweedledum and Tweedledee had in mind and why the urgency. Certainly it had to do with Dianna’s death and the restructuring of the company. The trust could not be dissolved, since it had been set up by Roland. He assumed that Dianna’s shares, which now included Angus’s as well, would go to Pamela. So Pamela now controlled the trust, and through it, the company.
He wondered whether he should approach her and offer to vote her shares—then he could reinstate himself. After a moment, he dismissed that possibility. He had never got on well with Pamela, and she wouldn’t change her opinion now.
Nama and Rabafana were formal, almost restrained. After they all shook hands, Nama cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hofmeyr—Cecil—once again, on behalf of the government, my wife and family, and myself, I offer our greatest sympathy on your recent losses. Your family has suffered more tragedy than anyone should be asked to endure.”
“Thank you, Nama,” Cecil murmured.
“Please accept my deepest sympathies too,” Rabafana added quietly.
“It has been a very difficult time, not only for me but also for BCMC,” Cecil said. “But the past is the past. Now we have to look to the future, not only for the family but also for the company. We must make it stronger and more profitable than ever before—for the benefit of all Batswana.”
There was a moment’s silence. Nama and Rabafana looked at each other. Then Nama cleared his throat once again. “Cecil, the government is very grateful for all you have done—guiding the company since the founder died, growing it to where it is now. We know that the changes the board agreed to a few weeks ago must have been very difficult for you.”
Cecil’s face revealed nothing of the growing excitement he felt. I’m going to get it all back, he thought. He looked down demurely.
“In consultation with the minister, we now ask you to call a board meeting as soon as possible so we can move the company forward.”
“I will call one for ten o’clock next Tuesday morning, a week from tomorrow,” Cecil interjected, his voice strong with authority. “That should give everyone enough notice.” Cecil looked at the two officials, who stared impassively back. “What would you like on the agenda?”
“We believe we should be proactive,” Rabafana answered for the two of them. “We should present a strongly supported set of proposals to the minister for his approval. First, the issue of the ownership of Angus and Dianna’s shares in the trust. We think control of the company should be more equitably spread. Second, the appointment of Mr. Nama and myself to the executive of BCMC. I will be chairman, and Mr. Nama will become an executive director. You will, of course, stay on as CEO. We believe the minister will support this if it has the board’s unanimous endorsement. Third, the disbanding of the subcommittee looking at issues of the Bushmen. We need to indicate that BCMC has no intention of interfering with the policies of the government.”
Cecil stared at Rabafana. “Gentlemen, as we agreed last time, I support your wish for greater involvement by the government and community in the shareholding of BCMC. It will be at the top of the agenda. But a trust has inalienable rights. The issue will need negotiation. Of course you can count on my support. As for the issue of the Bushmen, I agree it should be quietly dropped.”
Discarding the cloak of acquiescence, Cecil stood up to assert himself. “With respect to the management structure of BCMC,” he said more loudly, “it would be best for the company, and hence the government and the country, if I reverted to my previous role of chairman with executive powers. The two of you should assume executive roles, but should work as understudies to experienced personnel for a year or two so that you can pick up the ropes. Running a company such as BCMC is very complex, requiring a variety of technical and personal skills, not to mention personal contacts. You are both very talented, and I can easily see you as my successors in due course.”
Nama and Rabafana looked at each other uncomfortably. Rabafana said, “Cecil, I don’t think you understand. This is not negotiable. We insist on your support. You don’t have any choice.”
Cecil felt a chill pass through his body. Despite his anxiety, he smiled and said, “Gentlemen, don’t take this personally. You know how much I admire you, but I have to put the health of BCMC first. Pamela Hofmeyr would never agree to such a move. Believe me!”
This time Nama spoke. “Cecil, listen to me. You do not have a choice. Believe me.”
Now Cecil’s anger started to rise. “Listen to me. I have been running BCMC for nearly twenty years, very successfully, I may add. I know what it takes. You just do not have the votes to get this through. You only control ten percent of the votes on the board. Pamela Hofmeyr and I now have a majority, and we can pass whatever we want.”
Cecil stared at Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They stared back. After a minute Rabafana opened his briefcase, pulled out a small packet, and handed it to Cecil.
“Take a look at this videotape before the board meeting, Cecil. I have the original. It was found in Kobedi’s safe. I think you will find it quite graphic. You certainly were much trimmer in those days, Cecil. And quite adventurous too, it seems. I doubt if the board would keep you on in any role if this found its way into the wrong hands. Take a look at the tape, Cecil. Then I’m sure you will persuade Mrs. Hofmeyr to vote her shares with yours in support of what we have proposed. We are confident that a man of your experience can do it.”
The two stood up in unison and walked out.
Chapter 74
Kubu’s flight arrived at Kasane’s new international airport just after noon on Tuesday. Kubu remembered the old airport—airstrip was a better description—next to the Chobe River. It was one of those dirt strips that rich South African pilots like to reminisce about and locals detest. Often elephants or buck grazing on the runway had to be shooed off by doing a low pass over the field. One refueled by using the plane’s radio to call Heather, who ran a transport clearing service and filling station. The fuel arrived in drums on the back of a pickup and was hand-pumped into the plane’s fuel tanks. If they forgot to strain the fuel, there was a good chance dirt would block the fuel lines, and the engine would stop. Not a pleasant prospect, particularly when the end of the runway was at the edge of the crocodile-infested river.
The new airport was quite an improvement. Kasane International Airport. What a grandiose name, Kubu thought. The terminal—also a euphemism—could hold about fifty people if they didn’t mind crowding. It did have regular commercial service. However, private charters bringing tourists to the area’s magnificent game parks accounted for most of the air traffic.
Kubu was met by Robert Dingalo, a detective whom Kubu had known for years. They greeted each other warmly and caught up with each other’s news during the short drive to the police station. It was more attractive than he expected, the streetfront lush with multicolored bougainvilleas. Two massive, hundred-year old baobabs had been spared the ax, and the two-winged red brick building had been positioned between them. The baobabs were part of Botswana police history. Holes hollowed out in the trees had been used for many years as prison cells—one tree for men, the other for women.
Upside-down trees, Kubu mused. That’s what the Bushmen call them. They looked as though some wanton giant had grabbed the massive trunk, wrenched the unfortunate tree from the ground, and sunk the foliage back into the earth, leaving the winter-bare roots grasping skyward.
The new station was large. Dingalo told Kubu they had nearly one hundred offices and a staff to fill them. A major reason for the size was Kasane’s strategic location, close to the borders with Namibia, Zimbabwe, and Zambia—borders increasingly porous, as the Zimbabwean political and economic crises deepened. More and more, the police were being called on to help stem the flow of illegal immigrants, many of whom had appalling stories to tell of brutality and starvation.
As they walked through an elegant tiled entrance, spotless and shiny-polished, Kubu nearly slipped. “Watch your step!” Dingalo warned. “The cleaners here are very proud people!�
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Kubu sat down in Dingalo’s office to be briefed. A large pot of tea arrived with a plate of biscuits. Things could be worse, he thought.
“I know you’re eager to see your Mr. Red Beard,” Dingalo said. “But let me tell you what we know already.” Dingalo quickly recounted what had happened. He mentioned that Red Beard was in possession of two passports—an Angolan one in the name of Antonio de Vasconcelos, and a Portuguese one in the name of Manuel Fonseca. The Angolan one was well used, with several entries into Botswana. The Portuguese one was almost new, with two entries into Lisbon several months earlier. He also had a Portuguese driver’s license and about 500 pula and 6,000 New Kwanza, but nothing else of interest except for a firearm.”
“Where is it?” Kubu asked.
Dingalo unlocked a sturdy cupboard behind his desk and handed Kubu a plastic bag. Kubu did not open the bag, but examined the heavy gun in it. “Beretta. Nine-millimeter, semiautomatic. I think it’s called a Mini Cougar because it’s so small. Beretta makes lots of different models.” He paused. “One of our bodies was shot in the head with a 9-millimeter slug. I’d like to take this back for testing, if that’s okay with you.” Dingalo nodded his assent and locked the weapon back in the cupboard.
“You can pick it up and sign for it when you leave,” Dingalo said. “Let’s go and meet Red Beard.”
Kubu jumped up, eager to question the man who had caused so much mayhem.
They walked to the rear of the building to an interrogation room. “I had him moved from the holding cell when we arrived,” Dingalo explained. “I have to warn you that he’s not very cooperative.”
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 38
