He was in his office. Once more the desk had been cleared of papers—and the Watching Eye was nowhere in evidence—but the table was covered with gun parts, squeeze bottles of light oil, and brass ammunition cartridges covered with moldy verdigris. She hoped they were safe to handle, because Dupie was polishing them with Brasso. His Lee-Enfield rifle was spread in pieces on the desk as was his illegal Rhodesian Army issue revolver. They were cleaned and polished and shone with gun oil.
Dupie looked up at her. “They took me by surprise,” he said as though in reply to a challenge. “That won’t happen again. This is an island. Islands are hard to conquer. Ask Winston Churchill.”
Salome shook her head. “I’m terrified to stay, Dupie. The attack was the last straw. I have to get out.” Dupie touched her gently on the arm.
“Anyway, I’ve been looking at the accounts. It’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“The camp was already in trouble before the murders,” Salome continued. “But now I simply don’t have enough to cover our expenses. You sent Enoch to get supplies. Thank God we’ve got accounts with the shops in Kasane. But when those accounts come in, I’ll be hard-pressed to cover them. And as for the renewal of the concession next year, we won’t come close.”
“Don’t worry, Salome. Things will look up. We’ll be okay.”
She was touched by the “we,” but didn’t want reassurance. She needed to leave. She shook her head without replying.
“We can use the rest of the money in my savings account. That’ll keep us going for the moment. Till things turn around.”
“That’s finished, Dupie. After paying the accounts and the staff wages this month, there’ll be just a few hundred pula left.”
Dupie pouted and pushed his chair away from the desk to allow his stomach more space. “Well, maybe we need a change.”
She noted the “we” again.
“There are other opportunities,” he continued. “Maybe we need to try something else, do something new, go somewhere new. We’ve got lots of options.” He started assembling the revolver, clicking the chamber into place, and loading it with freshly polished ammunition. Then he shoved it into his belt.
Salome looked at the solidity of him, the size of him. It was as though the cramped office with its crude furniture was a theater set, two-dimensional. Dupie was the only substantial thing. He has always been the only substantial thing, she thought, surprised. Ever since that night. But as always her mind shied away from the horror of that one particular night in Rhodesia, dragging her attention back to the present, away from the ghosts. For twelve years he’s been the anchor here, asking nothing. Hinting, yes, wanting, perhaps, but not asking. And twelve years later it’s still “we.” Suddenly she wanted to tell him how she felt—not suddenly felt, but suddenly understood. But she wasn’t sure what to say, or even if he’d want to hear it ten years on. Well, she decided, start and see where you finish.
“Dupie, I…” But she was interrupted by the sudden crackle of the two-way radio coalescing into Enoch’s voice. At once Dupie jumped up and adjusted the volume.
“Yes, hello, Enoch. I can hardly hear you. Say again.” There followed a broken discussion of mechanical matters concerning the trailer. Enoch was at the extreme range of the radio, and sometimes his voice was swamped by interference. After frustrating dialogue, Dupie said, “Okay, just get back to the trailer and hang on there. Wait. With. The. Trailer. Just stay where you are! I’ll come out with my tools. Over and out.”
Dupie turned to Salome. “The trailer’s broken down. Sounds like the wheel bearings have seized. Just what we need right now. Enoch wanted to leave the trailer there and pick it up on his way back! That would’ve been the end of it! Don’t worry. I’ll get it rolling. I’ll need tools.” He was already on his feet, heading for the office to collect the keys to the vehicle and to the storage shed on the other side of the river. Salome followed him, but she realized that her moment had passed.
“I’ll get Solomon to take me over in the motorboat. Tell him to meet me at the jetty. Pack me some drinks, would you?”
She nodded and started for the kitchen, but he stopped her. “We’re not expecting anyone else. Don’t let anyone come across until I’m back. No one comes onto the island.” He pulled the revolver out of his belt and offered it to her. “No one. Okay?”
She nodded and took the gun, liking the feel of it, and appreciating the mixture of his concern and his confidence. “I feel as though I’m in the Scouts,” she said, smiling.
“That’s the Selous Scouts,” said Dupie, and laughed.
She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek, avoiding the frontal defense of his stomach.
He looked surprised, pleased.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t worry.” He gave her a hug and hefted a jerry can of fuel for the motorboat. There was a jauntiness to his step as he headed for the motorboat, whistling something he’d picked up from Moremi, but out of tune.
Salome hid the gun before organizing the drinks and snacks. When she got back to her tent, she listened to the fading sound of the motorboat crossing to the mainland.
When Dupie got back, the sunset was swimming in the lagoon. Salome went to meet him at the jetty. He was sweaty and had taken off his khaki bush shirt to expose a net undershirt, originally white but grayed by repeated washing, and now smeared with grease and dust. He was surprisingly cheerful and complimentary of Enoch. “Did a good job. Had the trailer up and the wheel off when I got there. But it was nearly two hours up the road.”
“What’s wrong with the trailer?”
“Wheel bearing. Couldn’t fix it properly, so I improvised. Used nylon rope and grease. I was able to tow it back. Enoch will try to get parts in Kasane tomorrow morning. It was too late to go on tonight. Told him to sleep in the vehicle and head in tomorrow. He can cram what we need into the Double Cab. He should be back here by afternoon.”
Salome nodded, accepting all this as in his domain. “Moremi is expecting you to do a bush braai for the guests. I thought we could all eat together since there’re only four of them. He’s made a great marinade. Good rump steak too from that new butcher you found. And salads.”
Dupie nodded and smiled at her, flushed by the sunset. “I’ll take a shower. We’ll open a bottle of wine on the house. And some beers. Shit, I could handle a beer. Tell some stories while we cook. Get everyone happy.”
She knew he would. She knew the alcohol would relax her too. She would find her moment after all. Not to tell him her feelings. Just to ask him to come back with her to her tent.
Chapter 28
William Boardman left the lounge bar of the Maun Toro Lodge disappointed, and strode angrily outside into the cool air. It was after ten! He had been waiting for over an hour, his voicemail messages unreturned. He had been looking forward to an interesting and lucrative evening. He had imagined that certain pieces of African art he wanted badly were within his grasp. Either the price would be right, or they could be obtained by less upfront means. But the meeting had not taken place, and the whole trip was largely wasted.
However, tomorrow there would be hell to pay. He would make absolutely sure it was understood that nothing was negotiable. He clenched his teeth and started drafting a letter in his head as he walked. A letter he had no intention of sending, but which he could use to get what he wanted. “Dear Superintendent Bengu,” it would begin. “I have spent some time thinking about the events of that awful night and the following morning. Playing it over in my head like a videotape. Trying to ensure that the shock and denial had not caused me to forget something of importance.”
He liked the videotape simile. It sounded serious and genuine. “I have recalled something that could be significant.” Or perhaps, “By freezing frames I came across an important item.” That sounded a bit contrived. “Over the last few days some frozen memory frames have changed my view of what I saw quite dramatically.” Maybe leave out, “q
uite dramatically.” He was already feeling better, the start of a smile.
He found himself at the door of his bungalow. It was near the end of a row of identical thatched, one-bedroom units, efficiently but unattractively arranged. All the surrounding cottages were in darkness, and only an outdoor light at knee level gave a pinkish low-energy illumination. He had to check his key and squint at the number to check he was at the correct cottage.
He was still fumbling with the key in the lock when he felt a knife at his throat and a hand over his mouth. He jerked with reflexive fright and felt the knife blade break the skin, warm blood trickling. Then he didn’t move.
“Quiet! You don’t get hurt. Understand?” He tried to answer but the hand was too tight over his mouth. He nodded as hard as he could against the restraining hand. He felt the door open, and he was shoved through. He almost fell, but recovered, and turned to face his attacker. The bedside light he had left on revealed a man—all black. Black track suit, black boots, black ski mask revealing only dark pupils. The only contrast was the whites of his eyes in the mask slits.
The man kicked the door closed behind him.
“We talk,” he said. “Just talk.”
Boardman recognized the assailant’s voice. Surprise burst out of him when silence would have been more prudent. “I know you, damn you! What the hell do you think you’re up to?”
The man in black hit him with both fists clenched together. The blow was supposed to knock him down, to prepare him for what was to follow. But being recognized so easily was a shock, and the blow was not well judged. Boardman collapsed to an unnatural position on the floor, eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Shit!” The attacker hesitated, breathing harder than the exercise justified. “Wake up, shithead! Or you get hurt!”
When there was no response, he aimed some powerful kicks and felt a rib snap. Then, he broke the nose with his heel. It was only when his boot smashed into the groin and still there was no response that he accepted that William Boardman was dead. He cursed his bad luck, and did what needed to be done.
Ten minutes later he slipped from the cottage, slunk through the darkness to the road, and disappeared.
Chapter 29
Enoch’s first stop in Kasane was at a spare parts shop. He greeted the mechanic in Setswana and explained that he needed a set of wheel bearings for a Venter off-road trailer. The man shook his head. “We’ll have to order them from Johannesburg. We don’t keep specialized parts like that. No call for them. Maybe I can patch it up in the meanwhile?”
“Dupie decided to tow it back to Jackalberry Camp,” Enoch told him. “We got it rolling, and he thinks he can fix it himself. Save a few pula.” Enoch sounded sarcastic. The mechanic took the details and promised to let them know the price and how long it would take to get the parts from South Africa.
Enoch shrugged. “I’m starved,” he said. “I only had a snack for the road and had to spend the night out in the bush. Nothing for supper. I’m off for some breakfast at the Old House. Can I use your bathroom to clean up?” His shirt was streaked with grease and dust, and his hands needed scrubbing. His pants looked as though he’d slept in them.
He emerged looking more respectable, thanked the mechanic, and headed for the casual and friendly restaurant. He explained his grubby, rumpled state to the owner—a Chinese woman whose eclectic menu included the best spring rolls north of Gaborone—and ordered a hearty English breakfast, which would have been a hit in London at three times the price. Enoch worked his way through multiple fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, and lashings of toast. It was a special treat. He felt he deserved it.
Satisfied, he toyed with the idea of visiting Lena, his local girlfriend. She lived on the southern outskirts of the town, and would be pleased to see him—unless she had another engagement. He decided against the possible embarrassment. He still had to do the shopping and endure the four-hour drive back to the camp.
His second stop was the liquor store, where he loaded cases of wine, beer, and harder stuff. It was around eleven by the time he got to the supermarket, not yet busy. He worked through his list, reducing cases to single bottles, skipping bulky items, which would normally go in the trailer. After he had paid, one of the shop assistants helped him to pack the Double Cab. It was a tight fit. Again he had to explain the absence of the trailer.
“Weren’t you scared sleeping out alone in the bush?” asked the assistant.
Enoch shook his head. “Nothing happened.”
His next visit was to Mario’s Meat Market on the outskirts of town, where cooler boxes awaited him, crammed with frozen vacuum-packed meat. He checked his list to make sure he had everything. Dupie wouldn’t be pleased if some item was left off, and Moremi was very particular. With no room in the back, the cooler boxes made a tower on the passenger seat and threatened to collapse on him if he cornered too quickly.
Finally he stopped in at the Mowana Safari Lodge to collect an item left behind there by one of Jackalberry’s current guests. As he waited for it, he noticed a man sitting under the thatch overlooking the river. He looked familiar. Enoch walked to a window in the lounge area to get a better view. It was Boy Gomwe. Gomwe glanced up and quickly turned away to face the river. Enoch was puzzled. Gomwe had returned to South Africa as soon as he had left Jackalberry. What was he doing in Kasane a week later? He shrugged. That was Gomwe’s business.
Thoughtful, he collected his package, walked back to the Double Cab and headed for the camp, taking the tarred road through Chobe toward Ngoma.
It would be four hours of hard bush driving before he got back to Jackalberry.
Gomwe was shocked. When he had turned to beckon a waiter for another gin and tonic, he had seen Enoch Kokorwe standing in the lounge. Was that coincidence? Or was Enoch checking up on him? If so, why? What did he know? Could the Jackalberry people be onto him? Gomwe turned quickly to face the river. Perhaps Enoch hadn’t seen him, but the sooner he tied up his business and got out of Kasane the better.
He had checked into the Mowana Safari Lodge that morning, tired after the drive. He would have liked to relax, but he was waiting for a man whom he knew only as Mandla. He thought back to his meeting in Johannesburg a few days earlier. He had shown that money-man Jarvis who was important. He had been furious that Jarvis didn’t want to help after what had happened at the Jackalberry Camp. Jarvis had told him that there was a great opportunity there. That a steady supply of money was headed there. Probably for heroin. That it should be easy to make a killing. Follow the money, he’d said. And Gomwe had.
“Bullshit!” The couple at the next table were startled by the outburst from the man sitting alone. They stood up and moved to the far end of the bar.
Easy to make a killing, he thought. What a load of crap. He wondered whether Jarvis had tried to set him up. He was lucky to get out of Jackalberry without suspicion. If, indeed, he had. He was worried about being spied on by Enoch.
He took off his dark glasses and polished them on his floral shirt. He looked around for the man he was to meet. Mandla who? he wondered. Still, it’s good to be cautious. After all he had been very careful to check that he hadn’t been followed.
Jarvis, he thought. Poor Jarvis, who thinks he’s a big shit just because his bosses are big money-laundering shits. Thinks he can choose whether to help me. He wanted to back out after Jackalberry. I showed him. Threatened to beat the shit out of him. Fucking coward had sniveled that Mandla was big up here. Speak to him. He’ll point you in the right direction. Gomwe put his dark glasses back on. He’d fucking well better!
Gomwe was on his fourth drink when a short, stocky man sat down at his table. “I’m Mandla,” he said quietly. Gomwe turned to look at him. The man looked around nervously. Another arsehole, Gomwe thought. He’ll be just like Jarvis.
“Little late, aren’t you?”
“Just being careful. Wanted to be sure you weren’t followed.”
“Not a chance,” Gomwe said louder than necessary. “A
fter the Jackalberry screwup, I check my back the whole time. I’m clean.”
“So what can I do to help a friend of Jarvis?” His lips smiled, but not his eyes.
Gomwe leaned forward. “I know shit comes through the border around here. I want to expand my business. Into wholesale. I need a contact from the other side, from Zimbabwe or Zambia.”
Mandla didn’t respond, but stared impassively at Gomwe.
After a few seconds, Gomwe couldn’t bear the silence.
“I’ve got good contacts all over,” he said, bravado creeping into his voice. “And my business is growing.”
Mandla continued to gaze at him, without saying a word.
“Come on, man,” Gomwe spluttered. “If you get me the contact, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“And what about the people who are already in the business? They won’t like it.”
“No, tell them I’m not going to take any of their business. I have my own customers. Good, serious customers. I won’t touch theirs. I don’t need them.”
Mandla stared at Gomwe for a few minutes.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “There’s going to be a trade in two days at a place called Elephant Valley Lodge, just outside Kazangula. I’ve made a reservation for you there in the name of Boy Biko. The travel agent in the lobby has it. Pay them in cash.”
Gomwe had no problem with that. He was always keen to move the cash he had received from his clients. “When do I go?”
“Tomorrow. Settle in. Something will happen in the next week.”
“Week! You’re mad! You think I have nothing better to do than sit around at a game lodge for a week?”
“Do you good to relax.”
“Why can’t I meet these people here? Or if it must be at this other place, why can’t you set up a meeting for tomorrow?”
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 57
