The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  She trickled the diamonds through her fingers back into their pouches and replaced them in the briefcase. Before closing up the box, she picked up a felt bag and took out a framed newspaper article with a photograph. Olivier and Charlie, she smiled ruefully, if only you’d known how it would end. She sighed and replaced the box in its cubby hole and locked the door then pressed the bell to recall Simenon.

  “Will you be returning soon, Mme Bishop?” He asked as they went up in the elevator.

  “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that the annual rental fee will become payable again at the end of this year. I was just looking at the file. It seems that the previous owners usually paid five years at a time to avoid any complications, since we didn’t have an address for them. I’ve printed out an invoice with the payment instructions and the amounts for one to five years.”

  “Thank you, Gilles.” Jenny took the invoice from him. She had completely overlooked the fact that fees were payable and, unlike a bank, there was no account to debit to pay them from.

  Gilles saw her eyes open wide at the amounts listed. “Yours is quite a small box, Mme Bishop. The larger ones are much more costly.”

  “Small mercies, Gilles,” she said, thinking about what was in the box. She had looked up some data about diamond prices before coming over to Geneva and knew that prices had fallen by about twenty per cent since 2008. But twelve hundred carats of finest quality Angolan diamonds should still be worth between ten and fifteen million dollars at today’s full wholesale price. She told herself that the fee wasn’t unreasonable. It was a bit like an insurance policy and fifteen million dollars’ worth of diamonds would cost a fortune to insure. “I’ll make arrangements to transfer five years of fees when I return home.”

  She folded the invoice and put it into her handbag as he opened the door for her.

  “Thank you Mme Bishop. I hope you have a safe flight home and an enjoyable weekend.”

  “The same to you, Gilles. It’s been a pleasure to know you and I wish you lots of success in the future.”

  She turned and walked off in the direction of Cornavin railway station, impervious to the resentful looks of the underdressed women freezing in the doorways of the bars and night clubs. She had one more appointment and she was looking forward to it.

  Jenny hurried along the Rue de la Gare, pausing for a moment outside no. 362 with a feeling of nostalgia. The IDD offices had been closed down shortly after the d’Almeida tragedy and all the documents and paperwork packed into boxes and moved to a storage facility. The name was no longer among those on the mail boxes.

  She pulled her collar around her neck and continued for another hundred metres to the corner of the Rue du Mont Blanc, where she went into the Banque de Commerce de Genève. Mme Aeschiman, the manager, came out to reception, greeted her warmly and escorted to her office.

  “It’s a while since you’ve been to visit us, Mme Bishop. I hope everything is well with you and Mme da Costa?”

  “Things are finally getting back to normal, thank you. That’s why I came over to see you.”

  The two women talked inconsequentially for a few moments, then Mme Aeschiman opened up a file on her desk. “Well, I’ve prepared everything as you asked. You’ll need to fill out quite a lot of forms then I’ll call in our Head of Portfolio Management, M Philippe Jaquelot. ”

  Thirty minutes later, Jenny had arranged to transfer her own and Leticia’s funds from Klein Felly into new accounts with the Banque de Commerce and opened an account for the twelve million dollars from the Angolan Clan settlement, ‘In trust for Emilio Salvador da Costa’, with both her and Leticia’s signatures. With M Jaquelot, the investment advisor, she agreed on a conservative, low risk portfolio strategy and her business at the bank was finished.

  She thanked Philippe and Valerie, as she now knew them and took copies of the documents for her UK tax accountant and the remaining forms for Leticia’s signature when she got back to Marbella. They shook hands and Jenny walked out to find a taxi at the station rank to take her to the airport.

  At Ramseyer, Haldemann, Claude Jolidon, the director of the safekeeping department was examining the signature book. He turned to Gilles. “I see that Mme Bishop was here this morning.”

  “I asked her if she wanted to speak to you, M Jolidon, but she said it wasn’t necessary. She sent her best regards, to you,” he added, untruthfully.

  “You should have called me,” Jolidon said, rather petulantly. “Was she alone?”

  “Yes she was and she seemed to be in a hurry.”

  “Really? And Mme da Costa wasn’t with her. Was she able to open her safety deposit box?”

  “Yes. She had both keys with her, but I’m sure she didn’t remove anything. Anyway, she was only here for a few minutes and I knew you were busy. She’s going to pay five years of fees when she gets home,” he said brightly.”

  “That’s alright Gilles, but next time, please call me. It’s been two years since I’ve seen Mme Bishop. I would have liked to say hello.”

  Jolidon walked away, a thoughtful look on his face. He took his coat from the wardrobe. “I’ve got a lunch appointment. I’ll be back by three o’clock.” His car was parked near the Richemont Hotel. He drove off in the direction of the French frontier and pulled up in front of the Hotel du Lac, in Divonne.

  “Bonjour, M Jolidon,” said the well-built man at the door of the Casino de Divonne.

  “Bonjour, Hervé. The new man had been guarding the casino entrance for only a few months, but his visits were so frequent that he was already well known to him. He walked through the gaming rooms to the offices at the back and knocked on a door.

  “Entrez!” A voice called out. Jolidon went into the office and closed the door behind him.

  Jenny took out her mobile and called Linda, at the kennels in Ipswich. Because of the break in her journey to visit Geneva, she’d had to leave Cooper, her West Highland Terrier in the UK. It seemed that he was well and enjoying his stay, as he always seemed to. As she put the phone back in her pocket, a text message came up. It was from Leticia. It said ‘Well done, Jenny. Gracias y hasta luego’.

  She sat back and made herself comfortable in the taxi for the twenty minute ride to Cointrin airport. Her day’s work was accomplished and she felt rather pleased with herself. Now she could get away from this freezing cold weather and down to the warmth of Marbella.

  THREE

  London, England

  The woman shivered as she walked quickly along Jermyn Street, behind Piccadilly, and entered the Cavendish Hotel. She made her way to the Petrichor Restaurant and left her outdoor coat with the hostess, glad to be inside. The fabric wasn’t as warm as the weather deserved. “No thanks,” she replied when the Maître d’Hôtel asked if she wanted a table, “I’m meeting someone here.” She looked around the busy room, ignoring the admiring glances of several male customers, until she spotted her lunch appointment sitting at a corner table by the window. He stood up when he saw her and pulled aside a chair.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” she said and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She had put on a close-fitting blouse and skirt for the ‘date’, from a fairly limited choice. Sitting down, facing him across the table, her impressive bust line was subtly revealed by two undone top buttons. “And thank you for inviting me for lunch. I’ve heard it’s a wonderful restaurant.”

  “One of my favourites, nowadays. The chef is an old friend of mine from the River Room at the Savoy. That was before they destroyed its lovely ambience with a facelift, of course.”

  The man must have been in his late fifties, with a comfortable paunch under his baggy, worn tweed coat and a dark blue and green striped tie tucked into the top of his trousers. He wore tortoiseshell framed spectacles and had a generous, rather French looking moustache.

  “A smidgeon of Laurent Perrier?” She nodded and he waved the waiter over to pour a generous flute for her and a fill up for his own glass.

 
; Looking around, the woman saw one or two faces she recognised from the newspapers. “Keeping up with the right company, I see. Santé. Here’s to us.” They clinked their glasses and sipped the champagne. “That tastes good.”

  Neither broached the subject of their meeting until after he had ordered her lunch. “Just leave it to me. I know exactly what you’ll enjoy.” She was happy to do so. Her fine wining and dining days had been few and far between of late.

  “Now, my dear,” he said, when the waiter had taken their order. “Judging from your call yesterday and your immediate trip to these shores I am bound to assume that you have some important revelation for me. I beg you not to leave me in this dreadful state of suspense for one single moment longer.”

  The woman looked carefully around the dining room, leaned forward across the table and said, “She has the keys and nothing has been taken.”

  “You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”

  “Absolument! She has never been back until this week and she opened the safe but removed nothing. Everything is as it has been for the last two years.”

  The man’s eyes gleamed from behind his spectacles. “And you have received this news from a reliable source?”

  “The best possible source. It comes directly from the Director of the Safe Keeping Department himself. It will cost us a small commission of course, but my connections through Divonne Casino have finally borne fruit.”

  “They have indeed. Then I think we deserve another glass of Laurent Perrier before we partake of our delicious repast and discuss our plan in somewhat more detail.” He counted on his fingers. “We have four months to get ourselves organised.” Raising his glass again, he said, “To a very profitable partnership, my dear.”

  Just before three o’clock the woman reclaimed her coat and bid Arthur farewell with a modest peck on the cheek. She walked up Piccadilly and into Fortnum & Mason’s tea department. As she waited to pay for the expensive tin of leaves, she selected a speed number on her mobile. “Cheri,” she said, “wonderful news. Arthur is up for it. He’ll manage the whole business. With my help, of course. He bought me a delicious lunch and couldn’t take his eyes off my poitrine. He’s even invited me to the ballet next Thursday, at the Royal Albert Hall. It’s Minkus’s Don Quixote with Simon Ball. I think he’s falling for me.”

  “So, he’s hooked. Good. Be careful to keep him at a distance and on the boil. Did you get an idea of the cost?”

  “He’s going to call me when he’s prepared an initial plan, but he wants to move very quickly.”

  “Now I have to make sure I can get the money.”

  “Phone me when you’re sure. And you need to contact the doctor also. There’s a lot to be done in a fairly short time.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can at your hotel and I’ll see you next week.”

  “I can’t wait. I love you. Goodbye.” She paid eight pounds twenty for the tea and walked out towards Piccadilly underground station to take the tube back to her three star hotel in Bayswater.

  Monte Carlo, Monaco

  Prince Muhammad Samir Ismail Abdullah El Moutawakel Bensouda took too large a swig of his Glenmorangie single malt and swallowed uncomfortably, trying to supress a cough. The smooth ten year old whisky wasn’t helping his frame of mind. It was well after midnight and he was sitting in the member’s bar of the Monte Carlo Casino in Monaco, a quiet haven, subtly removed from the bustling throng of wealthy and not so wealthy gamblers and tourists who still crowded the gaming rooms and public areas. Bensouda pondered his situation. The tables hadn’t been kind to him tonight. In fact they hadn’t been kind to him for the last year, any of them. Macau, Las Vegas, Divonne, London, he’d contributed heavily to their record profits and gone a long way towards squandering the impressive fortune he’d inherited.

  He took an envelope from his inside pocket, unfolded the letter and reread it for the umpteenth time that day. Although he was becoming used to receiving threatening letters from his many creditors, he was obliged to take this last one extremely seriously. If he lost the family home in Spain his very life would be at risk, even his siblings would not tolerate that level of profligacy. He ordered another whisky from the tail-coated waiter and sat quietly reflecting on the rapid erosion of what had seemed like an inexhaustible mountain of wealth. Perhaps it’s time to stop gambling and find a more reliable source of income, he told himself.

  Bensouda finished his drink, left a hundred Euro note as a tip and walked unsteadily out to the entrance hall. At least they weren’t hassling him to pay for his drinks. He’d already paid through the nose on the tables, the drinks were on the house, even the great number he consumed while throwing his money away.

  His chauffeur drove up to the entrance and helped his employer into the back of the Rolls Royce Phantom. The drive back to his hotel at that time of night was less than a half hour, unlike during the day, when it could take several hours along the beautifully picturesque but hopelessly congested coast road. He tried to focus on his problems, making mental commitments, not for the first time, to stop drinking and gambling, lose weight and get back into competition shape. After a few minutes he dozed off and was woken by the door being opened by the concierge of the Hotel Negresco on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice.

  “Bonsoir, M. le Prince.” The Rolls drove off towards his driver’s lodgings and the concierge led him through the lobby towards the elevators. “Vous avez votre clef? You have your key?”

  The man took the key and inserted it into the panel and pressed the top floor button.

  Bensouda took a one hundred Euro note from his pocket and folded it into the concierge’s hand.

  “Merci et bonne nuit, M. le Prince. A demain. Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He returned the key and the lift doors closed.

  Bensouda managed to open the door of the suite, walked across the wide entrance hall into the principal bedroom, kicked off his shoes and fell onto the king size bed. The curtains were open just enough to show the lights on the promenade around the Bay of Angels, but he didn’t see them. He was already dead to the world.

  DAY ONE

  SUNDAY, JULY 11, 2010

  FOUR

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  The score in the World Cup Final was Netherlands 3 - Spain 2. No goals yet, just yellow cards. The noise in the FNB stadium, Soccer City, was unbearable, almost worse after the half-time whistle had been blown than during the match itself.

  “Those bloody vuvuzelas! They should be banned. I’ll be surprised if I don’t get a burst eardrum by the end of this match.” Emma Stewart held her hands over her ears to try to block out the incessant blast that seemed to emanate from the throat of every one of the 90,000 fans who packed the stadium.

  “Never mind, Mum. Just think of the headlines in the Newcastle Herald; ‘Local writer struck deaf during World Cup Final’. That’s pretty cool.” Her son Leo stood up and stretched painfully, trying to get the circulation restored after sitting with his knees under his chin for the last hour. Emma’s books sold reasonably well, but not well enough to afford seats with enough leg room to comfortably accommodate his six foot three frame. But he wasn’t complaining. Just being at the final was a terrific reward for his eight grade ‘A’ GCSE passes the previous year. At age fifteen, Leo was not only tall beyond his years, but clever enough to be already submitting applications to the best universities in the UK. With any luck, he’d have three or four ‘A’ levels under his belt and be an undergrad in a top college before he was eighteen.

  “I have to go to the loo,” he announced. “Can I get you anything? A drink, hot dog, whatever?”

  “I’ll come with you. I need to stretch my legs too and I don’t think I can sit for another hour without a toilet break.”

  They fought their way along the aisle to the main thoroughfare then followed the signs through the masses of football-crazy supporters to the toilets.

  “Wait for me here,” instructed his mother. “It’s bound to be bedlam in the
Ladies. Don’t budge until I get out.”

  Five minutes later, Emma struggled out of the door, still wiping her hands dry on her handkerchief, and swept the crowded area with her keen gaze. She couldn’t spot the easily identifiable tall slim figure of her son. After a few minutes wait she realised the crowds were returning to their seats for the second half. That silly boy, she said to herself, he just doesn’t listen to me at all.

  She made her way back to their aisle but Leo’s seat was vacant and he wasn’t to be seen. Supressing her exasperation she went back to the toilet area and asked an attendant to look inside for a tall teenager.

  “No one”, he reported.

  She visited the drinks stand, the hot dog stand and every other place she imagined he might be – but he wasn’t. When she came back into the stadium, play had resumed and she could see around their seating area more easily. She anxiously scoured the crowded rows one after the other but she couldn’t pick out his tall figure. Leo was nowhere to be seen.

  Another attendant directed her to the security office, which was near to the main stadium entrance. A young black woman listened to her story and showed her into a small ante room. A burly, hard looking white man in a creased linen suit came in. He looked like a sand bag with arms and legs.

  “I’m Marius Coetzee, head of the security company. What’s wrong?” His skin was pock marked and his breath smelled of stale cigarettes. He spoke in an arrogant manner with a strong Afrikaans accent and didn’t seem to be particularly interested in Emma’s problem as he lit up a small black cheroot.

  “It’s my son. I can’t find him,” she said, trying to supress the feeling of panic that was invading her. She explained the circumstances and described Leo. “He’s fifteen, slim and very tall, it should be easy to spot him, but I can’t.”