“Tell me you haven’t been to see him too, Gabriel.”
“Shouldn’t I have?”
“Oh god, Gabriel. That man Erasmus lives in a fortified castle, doesn’t he? Bristling with security and cameras. I saw something about it in an article about him. If anything happens to him, it’ll be caught on camera.”
“I expect it will.”
Bill pushed his calamari aside and took a sip of wine.
“Why are you warning me about the cameras?” I asked.
Bill swallowed the wine and gave me a momentary glance of consternation, as if wondering whether that was a confession.
“I’ve lost one friend already to this whole business,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose another.”
Which was the first time that Bill had called me a friend.
Twenty-Two
The newspaper article about the obese and obscenely wealthy Billy Mabele, a hitherto unknown criminal kingpin who bore no relationship to the notorious arms dealer Richard Mabele, and who was being questioned by the police in connection with the notorious ‘gold heist’, appeared on the fourth page of the Sunday Times. It was entirely unremarkable and went unnoticed by most of the world.
“That’s the way we want it,” said Chandler, after we had taken it in turns to read the article and not been impressed.
“They said I was obese,” complained Fat-Boy.
“That’s because you are,” said Chandler. “They had to say something that was true. And didn’t you say obesity signifies wealth in your culture?”
“Bigness,” said Fat-Boy, “not obesity.”
“It was too vague,” said Robyn. “It will never work.”
We were on the Oasis terrace of the five-star Mount Nelson hotel, enjoying breakfast, which Chandler insisted was the most important meal of the day. I thought he might also have chosen to meet early because it was the most likely time to find Robyn sober, although in the few days since we had last seen each other she seemed to have regained some strength and looked refreshed, confident and entirely sober, which was a little irritating. Robyn, Chandler and I were reprising our roles as high-flying hotel executives, because Chandler hadn’t wanted to burn another full set of identities, and he was confident he could run these a bit further.
“It was purposefully vague,” said Chandler. “That was how we briefed the writer. The important points are all in there. It makes it very clear that Mabele is suspected of being the fence the heist gang were intending to sell the gold to. It makes it clear he is of Xhosa heritage and is in the market for precious metals.”
“That business of Mabele expressing frustration when the journalist called was too subtle,” said Robyn.
“You think so? You might be right. I’ll concede that one.”
“The Dark Bizness people will not link the frustration to the fact that they now have the gold. That Mabele let slip he was frustrated by delays in a big transaction won’t translate in their minds as confirmation that he is the fence. He could have been talking about delays on some other business.”
“It’s subliminal,” said Chandler. “That’s what the writer said. Hint about the gold, talk about the gold, then infer about nothing in particular and they will fill in the blank … so we get an inference about the gold. Remember, they are the only people, aside from us, that know that we no longer have the gold. I think that little detail about Mabele’s frustration will have a ring of truth for them.”
“Is our fence frustrated?” asked Robyn.
Chandler gave her a smile.
“Now you’re crossing the line between fact and fiction, Robyn. Our fence is not in the least frustrated, but that’s because I haven’t been keeping him up to date with all our minor setbacks. He will wait patiently for my call, even if it takes many weeks.”
“It’s been picked up anyway,” said Fat-Boy, who had a tiny laptop beside his plate of waffles and was using a sausage-sized finger to scroll through on-line news sites.
“I told you it would be,” said Chandler. “It won’t take long for our little fabrication to spread. And then it is just a matter of time before one of Lebogang Madikwe’s minions shows it to the boss, and he’ll be calling up this magnificent hotel to see if the journalist was right about you staying here while concluding other business.”
“You should call him Lebo,” said Fat-Boy. “Only white people call him Lebogang.”
“I am white,” Chandler pointed out.
“And if one of Lebo’s minions doesn’t call?” asked Robyn.
“Then we send Billy Mabele to him,” said Chandler.
“God forbid,” said Robyn.
There was a small silence.
“And while we wait, we enjoy the luxury of the Mount Nelson,” said Chandler.
“It’s too expensive,” said Fat-Boy who was still smarting from the punitive condition that Chandler had placed upon executing this plan of his: that the costs be taken from his share of our expected bounty.
“A man such as Billy Mabele does not stay anywhere but a five-star hotel,” said Chandler. “You cannot expect to be taken seriously in some two-star dive. When Lebogang comes knocking, you need to be the part, not just playing the role.”
“I’ve done it before,” said Fat-Boy.
“And you did splendidly,” agreed Chandler. “Although we can be relieved that only two of the people who witnessed your first performance are still alive, and they are not the sort of people Lebogang Madikwe would have on speed dial.”
“Whatever you do,” I said, “don’t tell that absurd story about your mother and the British kings.”
“William the Conqueror?” said Fat-Boy. “There’s nothing absurd about it, he’ll love that story. Didn’t the Afrikaners love it?”
“The Afrikaners lapped it up,” said Chandler, “but the Angel is right. You need to be sharper on this one. Lebogang Madikwe did not become the successful businessman he is by being a fool.”
“You don’t trust me, do you, Colonel? You trust the Angel because he’s an old army buddy, but you don’t trust the people who have stuck by your side through the bad times. Is it because we never saluted you? Is that the problem?”
Fat-Boy grasped the edge of the table, hoisted himself to his feet, and performed a mock salute. People at neighbouring tables turned to look.
“Settle down, Fat-Boy,” said Chandler. “I trust you implicitly. Stop playing the fool, will you? You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I salute you, Colonel,” said Fat-Boy in a loud voice the way he’d seen it done in the movies, attracting more attention from the other guests.
Chandler rose to his feet, looked at the sorry sight of Fat-Boy’s drooping salute, then saluted him back. The two of them sat down again, and there was scattered applause from the tables about us, who appreciated that they had witnessed a ceremonial bonding moment.
“I’m not saluting you,” said Robyn.
“I don’t expect you to,” said Chandler. “It is this kind of thing that we need to avoid, Fat-Boy. Do you see that? What happens if the Dark Bizness folk ask around at the hotel about your activities? Do you want them hearing that you saluted some old white guy at breakfast one morning?”
“I’m gonna work it into the character of Billy,” said Fat-Boy, feeling more cheerful now. “I think I’ll make you a lower level secretary, Colonel, and as Billy the Conqueror I insist my secretaries salute me at our morning briefings.”
Fat-Boy’s eyes settled on me. “In fact,” he said. “I think the Angel should salute me too.”
He started rising to his feet again.
“Let’s all stay in our seats, shall we?” said Chandler. “We need to avoid causing a scene.”
Fat-Boy subsided again with some reluctance.
“Besides which,” said Chandler, “Angel might not be working with us on this – which brings us to the next point on our agenda.” He turned to me. “What have you been getting up to, Angel?”
“I’m the next point on
the agenda?” I said.
“You’re all over the news, haven’t you seen?”
“What do you mean, all over the news?”
“Last night’s Crime Watch. They had an ugly mugshot of you – been splashing it all over the place. Find it for us, will you, Fat-Boy?”
Fat-Boy applied his finger to the screen of his laptop. Chandler’s grey eyes held steady on me.
“What have you done, Corporal?” he said. “If your personal problems are going to jeopardise our operation, it might be time for you to fill us in.”
“It’s a misunderstanding,” I said. “There have been two deaths, of prominent people – a judge and a politician. The police think I’m mixed up in it.”
“You need to disabuse them of that opinion. We cannot have your ugly face all over the media if we’re trying to keep a low profile.”
“Of course, Colonel,” I said.
“Mixed up how?” asked Robyn.
“There’s a connection to Sandy, the journalist.”
“That journalist of yours,” said Chandler, “has been nothing but trouble.”
“Considered armed and dangerous,” said Fat-Boy, reading from his laptop. “Do not approach … call the crime-stop number.” He turned the computer so that we could see the screen. A file photograph of my face filled it, one that had been taken for my access card to the Department’s offices. No doubt Khanyi had rallied around to help the homicide squad where she could. I looked up to find Chandler’s eyes still on me, and for a moment I experienced the dislocation in time I often felt when looking into his eyes – my shoulders up against the cold steel fuselage of the plane wreck in the Kivu, Brian’s blood spattered over Chandler’s face, his fists locked onto my webbing, holding me back.
“Sort it out, will you, Angel?” he said.
“Of course, Colonel.”
“Let us know if there is anything you need.”
“Best to keep you out of it, Colonel.”
Chandler shook his head. “No. Better together, Corporal, always better together. United we stand.”
I got to my feet. “But it would be best if I leave this hotel,” I said. “So as not to draw attention to your activities.”
“Sit down,” said Chandler. “Drop the heroics, and stay here – a five-star hotel is not an awful place to hide. The over-fed, over-rich guests can’t see past their own egos, and the staff is taken care of. My man at the desk will alert me if there is any trouble. Just stay out of everyone’s way, Angel. Shut yourself up in your room, and let’s make certain the Dark Bizness people don’t see you again.”
“Of course,” I said, and sat down.
Chandler turned to Robyn and Fat-Boy. “You two okay with this?”
They both nodded, although Robyn avoided my eyes. Chandler raised a glass of orange juice in a toast.
“Together again,” he said. “And long may it last.”
Fat-Boy downed his orange juice and slammed the glass onto the table as if he was taking part in a drinking game.
“Never thought I’d have a cold-blooded killer as a friend,” he said.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Thank you, Fat-Boy,” I said.
And I meant it. Not that I enjoyed being called a cold-blooded killer, but Fat-Boy was the second person in the space of a week who had called me a friend.
My room at the Mount Nelson hotel was a small one on the fourth floor, with a four-poster bed and a mahogany writing desk from which I could see the Company Gardens – a strip of green that poked itself into the concrete heart of the city. It was these Gardens, according to the brochure on the writing table, that we had to thank for the presence of Cape Town city – they were the original vegetable gardens established in the 1600s to provide sustenance to ships passing around the tip of Africa on their way to trade spices in the east. Beneath the gardens, Adderley Street ran straight as an arrow down to the Foreshore area, and beyond that was the glimmering sea.
Andile answered my call on the third ring.
“You coming in?” he asked.
“Things must be going better with Khanyi,” I said. “Is she less focused on her career now that she’s sharing photographs of ex-employees with you?”
“You’re a wanted man, Gabriel. The name Jessop Ndoro mean anything to you?”
“Sure it does. I had a drink with Jessop not long ago.”
“We know that. You wouldn’t know how he hurt his throat?”
“Also a knife wound?” I asked.
Andile sighed.
“We can trace this call,” he said. “Why don’t you just come in and talk with me?”
“I’m sure you could trace it, but I won’t still be standing here in a week’s time when you’ve had all the paperwork approved.”
“Let’s clear this up now, Gabriel. You are the common link between these men. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“If I could prove I wasn’t there at the time either of those men were killed, would that clear it up?”
“It might.”
“And the people who would back me up – would you give them some kind of indemnity?”
“What do you mean, back you up?”
“People who were with me at the time of the killings.”
“By indemnity you mean a handshake, and then let them walk out the door without checking they’ve paid their taxes?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“You’re being naïve, Gabriel. If someone makes a sworn statement in connection with a homicide investigation, they get the full service. You know that. And even if these shady friends of yours come forward, there’s such a thing as aiding and abetting. Come in and talk with us yourself, Gabriel.”
“There are a few things I need to do first.”
I heard the clicking of a cigarette lighter, and then the buffeting of Andile’s breath on the microphone as he exhaled.
“Like going to confession? You found religion recently, Gabriel?”
“Did I ever lose it?”
“That man Erasmus has more security than God himself. Whoever it is you’re aiding and abetting would do well to consider that.”
I said nothing. I hadn’t used a fake identity to gain entrance to the House of Our Lord, because I’d run out of them. And I figured the Department and their friends in the homicide squad would know soon enough about my visit to the church leader. The last thing I wanted to do was blow one of the identities Chandler had created for me, and lead them all back to the team at the Mount Nelson.
“I know about the security,” I said. “I was there recently.”
I could hear the crackling of the tip of Andile’s cigarette, and then the sighing exhale.
“You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do when I find you,” he said.
“I’ll be sure to bring several packs of cigarettes,” I said, and ended the call. I doubted he was tracing my location, but one doesn’t want to take foolish risks.
Twenty-Three
When evading arrest because of the suspicion of having committed double culpable homicide there are worse places to be than the Mount Nelson hotel, which the brochure on my writing table described as an ‘inviting hotel nestled at the foot of Table Mountain, painted pink for peace in 1918’. I wasn’t sure that painting it pink had contributed much towards world peace, but it was still a fairly virulent pink, and I supposed the management was hoping for the best, despite everything that had happened in the past century. Within the pink walls, according to the brochure, the magic of a bygone era awaits. I didn’t know about the magic either, but the place certainly did feel pretty old-fashioned, what with all the pastel colours and wallpaper which dated from the prohibition years.
I settled into a comfortable routine of late mornings, brief stints in the gym, and afternoons in the lounge racing to complete the tour of whisky samples from around the world, while keeping an eye on Fat-Boy in case of inconsistencies in the character of Billy Mabele. There were none that I could se
e, although Billy Mabele’s routine was remarkably simple for a criminal kingpin. He wedged himself into a two-seater couch early in the afternoon with a pile of newspapers and was provided with a stream of rich food and beer through the day, avoided looking in my direction, and made occasional loud phone calls in Xhosa despite the irritated glances of foreign tourists. The highlight of his day seemed to be the twice daily meeting with his private secretary, which started and ended with a sloppy salute.
As it happened, we didn’t need to send Fat-Boy out to find Lebogang Madikwe, because Lebogang Madikwe found him. It took him only three days to contact Billy Mabele, and he did it through an intermediary: his cousin, Justice Mkwekwe, who called the Mount Nelson hotel as we had hoped and simply asked to be put through to Billy Mabele. Billy insisted on taking the call in his room, and Justice Mkwekwe was put on hold for the ten minutes that it took Billy to extricate himself from the couch, roll along the corridor and ride the elevator up to the third floor.
Chandler and I sat quietly in his room with him and listened to the brief musical conversation.
“Have they bitten?” asked Chandler.
“More of a nibble,” said Fat-Boy.
“You said no?”
“Course I did, Colonel, you didn’t hear me?”
“You were speaking Xhosa,” Chandler pointed out.
“Told him I wasn’t interested. Told him I didn’t know a Lebo Madikwe. I knew, and loved, a Vusi Madikwe, may he rest in peace.”
“He mentioned the gold?”
“No, he did not mention the gold. Said they had something I’d be interested in.”
“And you said?”
“That nothing of theirs would be of any interest to me. I loved the brother Vusi, and I mourn him, but I have no interest in anything of Lebo’s”
“Good,” said Chandler. “You know what to say on the next call?”
Fat-Boy glared at him. “Who wrote the script, Colonel? Whose idea was this?”
“Full credit is due to you, Fat-Boy, but we need to play this carefully. You both saw the picture of him pressing flesh with his new best friend.”
Vengeful: A Conspiracy Crime Thriller (The Gabriel Series Book 3) Page 19
