The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  Emma felt ill at the thought. She had to find someone who could advise or help her. Turning to a new sheet in her notebook she drew a line down the page to split it into two columns. She headed one, MONEY, and the other, ADVICE.

  She went through a mental list of her friends and acquaintances, people who she could trust and people who had money. It was a very short list. The first name that came to mind was her publisher, Alan Bridges, owner of an independent publishing house in Edinburgh and her on-off boyfriend for the last five or so years. She put his name into both columns, although she knew he’d be full of sympathy and good advice, but not very forthcoming with money. He wasn’t that well off himself. Maybe an advance on her royalties, but nothing earth shattering. A couple more names came to her, which she added, without much conviction. Friends who would probably declare their dying love and devotion but would be totally useless to help unless she could convince them to spring a small loan. And a small loan, she was beginning to realise, was not what she needed.

  In terms of family, her options were even more limited. Both of Emma’s parents had passed away, she was unmarried and apart from Leo, she had only one surviving relative, her sister, Jenny, who was three year’s younger than her, born in 1972. That was before their parents’ acrimonious and devastating divorce. She wrote Jenny Bishop in both columns, then sat back, thinking about her sister.

  Jenny had lost her husband in a hit and run accident a couple of years ago. It had been a horrible time for her, since her father-in-law had then died in an accident in his swimming pool in Spain. She had gone down there for a couple of weeks and apparently everything had been sorted out without further incident. Emma knew Jenny’s father-in-law was a wealthy man and she had told her, on a recent shopping trip in London, that she had ‘come into a little money’. She had demonstrated this by being unusually generous with Emma. Obviously she knew not all writers are millionaires, most of them, like her, were just struggling to pay the mortgage.

  In addition, Emma had come to recognise that her sister was a lot smarter than she. Originally a junior school teacher with a handful of ‘A’ levels and a BA in teaching, she had taken two years off to graduate from the London School of Economics with a degree in Sociology, then gone back to Sunderland to teach kids with learning difficulties. This had greatly impressed Emma. Her own forays into the NGO world of humanitarian endeavour had been instigated much more by a desire to escape from her unhappy childhood than to use her limited abilities to save the planet.

  Jenny had then married well and after being widowed in tragic circumstances seemed to have reorganised her life. Emma had always thought there was more to her than met the eye. Jenny didn’t say much, she just got on with things.

  She was often at the house in Spain and had asked Emma to come down for a visit with Leo, but she had somehow not got around to it yet. She was too busy writing her books just to survive and provide her son with a stable home life and a good education. He was the clever one in her family, but now it was her turn. She had to be clever enough to find Leo and get him back from whoever had taken him.

  Emma sat on the side of her bed in her shabby three star hotel room in Johannesburg as she tried to get to grips with the enormity of what was required of her. She looked in the wardrobe mirror and saw her pale reflection in the early morning light and she felt frightened and totally helpless.

  It was ten and a half hours since Leo had been taken.

  EIGHT

  Ipswich, England

  Jenny Bishop was waiting with her suitcase at the open door of her semi-detached in Ipswich when the house phone rang. She looked at her watch, it was just coming up to seven. Who would call me at this hour? When it continued to ring she stepped back into the hall and picked up the receiver. She immediately recognised the lilting north-east accent of her sister.

  “Jenny, Jenny, it’s Emma. Thank God you’re there, I thought you might be away. I need to talk to you. Something terrible’s happened and I don’t know what to do. Can you call me back on my mobile? I’m still in South Africa and calls are so expensive and I’ve got no money.” Her voice cracked and Jenny heard a sob.

  “Calm down, Emma. I’m just leaving for the airport, but I’ll call you straight back.” She pressed the number on the screen and her sister came back on the line. “What on earth is wrong?”

  Emma took a deep breath. “It’s Leo. He’s disappeared and I’m sure he’s been abducted. It’s all so complicated it’ll take me ages to tell you. When can you call me back? Things are happening very fast here.”

  “What are you talking about? How can ….” Jenny looked outside. “Just wait a minute. I’m on my way to Stansted airport to fly down to Spain and my cab’s arrived. Let me get in and I’ll call you straight back again. Is that OK?”

  “I won’t budge until you call. Thanks, Jenny.”

  A black minicab drew up and the driver put her case into the boot while Jenny locked the front door then got into the back seat. Since she had ‘come into a little money’ she’d given up the coach ride to Stansted and negotiated a good price with a local taxi company, not much more than the coach fare but a lot more comfortable. She was still a low-maintenance person, but she’d decided she could afford a little more comfort. However she continued to fly with EasyJet, there were some things she wasn’t yet ready to change. It was a grey morning and the countryside rolled past in a dreary blur, like a black and white movie slightly out of focus.

  She checked her mobile, it was over ninety per cent charged up and the drive to Stansted was at least an hour, enough for a long conversation. She pressed the recall button. What’s happened with Leo? She wondered, as the call went through. Emma’s not the type to panic, but she’s definitely in a panic right now.

  “Jenny. It’s so good to hear your voice. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “No problem, Emma. Now just calm down and tell me what’s wrong. I’m in this cab for an hour and I’ve got nothing else to do but talk to you.”

  Jenny’s first comment, after listening to her sister’s story for thirty minutes, was, “This is too incredible to be true, it sounds like something from one of your books. You’re absolutely sure of it?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. Then I double checked my notes and went back through my memory and I’m absolutely convinced I’m right. You have to believe me. Leo’s been taken by these people. I don’t know why and I don’t know where, but I know that’s what’s happened. What am I going to do? I’ve got no husband, no real friends, no idea of what I should do. You’re clever. You know how to fight adversity, get things done.”

  Like her sister, Jenny had the habit of making notes about everything, though she’d recently started using an iPad and the Notes App. She looked down the couple of pages she’d written in the cab and asked a few relevant questions. Listening to her quiet and authoritative tone, Emma started to feel better. She answered in a calmer voice, remembering and describing every detail that supported her story.

  “There’s no question that I’m right, Jenny. Otherwise, where is my son? He can’t suddenly have decided to go walkabout. He’s got no money and doesn’t know anyone. Twelve hours ago he disappeared and he hasn’t returned. If he hasn’t been abducted, where is he?”

  “Right, you’re right. We have to assume you’re not losing your mind. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that it’s all so unbelievable, such a shock. Who in God’s name would want to kidnap Leo? I wish I was there with you, I know how helpless and alone you must be feeling. But I’m just on the end of a telephone, so between us I’m sure we can get this sorted out.”

  She paused, thinking hard. “If Leo has been taken, we’re dealing with well organised and ruthless people, so you’re going to have to be brave and decisive and we need to start taking some decisions right now. When are you supposed to leave?”

  “The night after tomorrow. And if we miss the flight, it’ll cost me two thousand quid which I don’t have. This was a major decision
for me, to bring Leo here for the football. It took all my savings and now I’m down to the bare bones.”

  Jenny made another note – No money, no flights. “What’s the position with, er,” she scrolled up a page on the iPad, “Coetzee and Nwosu?”

  “I’m supposed to see them this morning, but I really don’t want to listen to any more lies from them.”

  “Wrong, Emma. That’s exactly what you do need to do. You need more details about what happened and they’re the only two people who can provide them. You’ve got to fool them now just as they’ve been fooling you. What time is it now?”

  “We’re one hour ahead of you, so it’s just before nine here and I’m supposed to be picked up at ten. What do you suggest?”

  “Let’s go through our notes again and pick out the points you can check. We need to be absolutely sure your theory is right and we need to try to work out how they did this and how we can prove it. We’ve got two days to find out what happened and contact someone at a higher level to intervene, otherwise we’ll get nowhere.

  “Now,” she continued, “what about the guard who saw Leo in the wheelchair?”

  NINE

  Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa

  Coetzee and Nwosu were in the policeman’s office, also on the phone. The speaker volume on Nwosu’s mobile was low, so they had to sit close to the phone and to each other. Coetzee wasn’t keen on being so close to the black man, but their conversation wasn’t for public consumption.

  Coetzee was getting a tongue lashing from the person on the other end of the line. His short temper boiled over and he leaned across to the phone. “I already told you. I had to send that photo around. The woman might have asked one of the guards herself. And there was supposed to be a diversion on the other side of the corridor. The guard shouldn’t have seen a thing. I ‘m not responsible for other people’s incompetence!”

  The voice from the speaker was slightly deformed by some kind of acoustic software. But it was definitely a man’s voice, chillingly quiet and calm. “Mr Coetzee, I do not appreciate my employees shouting at me on the telephone. Don’t do it again. The fact is that the incident in the stadium was entirely under your management and it went wrong. There is now a witness to the event and I consider that to be an unwelcome deviation from our plans. In addition, Mrs Stewart should not have been aware of the circumstances of her son’s disappearance until much later. It makes things very awkward.”

  “Once the guard had told us he’d seen the boy, I had to let her look at the recording. She’d already asked to see it. She’s an intelligent woman.”

  “You’ll have to arrange for the guard to be, let’s say, unavailable for further information. He could be a fly in the ointment in our subsequent arrangements, or if he adds two and two together he might even try to profit from the opportunity. Please see to it immediately.”

  The two men looked at each other, Nwosu making a slashing action across his throat. He leaned over the phone, “Just leave it to me.”

  “Excellent.” Despite the sound deformation, they could discern that the man spoke with a recognisable English accent. The intonation was so perfect that the two listeners suspected he might not be English at all, but hiding a foreign accent which might betray him. Neither of them had met him, Nwosu’s original contact in April had been via a visit to his apartment by an intermediary, who arrived in a car with a Zimbabwean number plate. He came twice more then disappeared. He had been told to get Coetzee on side for a ‘large transaction’ and the promise of a lot of money had achieved just that. Further contacts were always made by emails, couched in innocuous, seemingly anodyne terms, or by telephone. The emails were sent from an ISP in Azerbaijan and the telephone calls came, usually at nine thirty in the morning, from an untraceable number. Nwosu had used his network of police contacts in several vain attempts to locate the source. In the absence of any other means of identification they called the man ‘The Voice’.

  Coetzee tried to avoid the police departments at all cost and had never encountered the policeman previously. He had quickly discovered that Nwosu was a corrupt and venal example of officialdom. In addition he was totally uninterested in sport. The security chief had been chosen as Nwosu’s partner only because he had a security company and, vitally, the contract for the stadium security arrangements, including the World Cup Final. He had agreed because he was broke and losing money every month. His army pension pot had been almost eaten up over the last two years because he was an incompetent business man. Neither of them knew who the Voice was, what he looked like, where he came from, or where he was based. Funds, transferred from a bank in Panama City, appeared in their bank accounts without any sender’s information or reference of any kind.

  Lambert had arrived at the hotel in May and they had been ordered to contact him at the hotel. Details of the ‘large transaction’ had then been divulged to them and preparations had been put in place for various abduction scenarios. Coetzee didn’t know who the target was until the day before the match and was shocked to discover it was a teenage boy. Now it was too late to regret his decision.

  Relations between Coetzee and the policeman were not good. The security chief didn’t trust Nwosu and the sergeant obviously despised him. Both men knew they were navigating dangerous waters, but the rewards were impressive. As always, greed, or in Coetzee’s case, necessity, got the upper hand.

  “Now,” the Voice continued. “The boy, Leo. How is he?”

  “He’s in a safe place and he’s OK. I saw him this morning. He’s still sedated, but we’ve got very competent people monitoring his condition and there’s nothing to worry about there.”

  “Please bear in mind that this young person is an exceptionally valuable commodity. To neglect to properly protect such an asset would bring deserved opprobrium upon your heads, followed by immediate and unpleasant consequences.”

  “We understand.” Coetzee looked at Sergeant Nwosu and shrugged. Who uses words like ‘deserved opprobrium’ he asked himself. This guy is from a very strange place.

  “And the Stewart woman. What’s the situation?”

  “She was so upset last night we didn’t get anything much out of her. She went back to her hotel to cry herself to sleep. We have a man there and she hasn’t budged. She’s coming here at ten and we’ll get to work on her then.”

  Coetzee interrupted the policeman. “What exactly do you want her to tell us? We need to know more about it, so we can ask the right questions, push her in the right direction.”

  The Voice sounded annoyed again. “I’ve already covered this point in detail with you. You should interrogate her remorselessly about her son and about his father. Who was he, what did or does he do? Where and how did they meet? Where was the son born? Where is the father now? Was she married to him, or was it a brief romance? Is he still alive or what happened to him? I want a full and comprehensive report from you by this evening without fail. You’ll then receive further instructions as to the subsequent steps to be taken in connection with the boy.”

  There was the faint sound of someone speaking quietly in the background, then the man continued, “Don’t hurt the woman. Her wellbeing is essential to the success of our programme. That will be all for now.” The phone went dead.

  “Did you hear the other voice? Maybe this guy isn’t the big chief after all. We need to get to the bottom of this. This could be some kind of paternity thing. The boy’s been taken off by the mother and the father’s trying to get him back. He’s got African blood, so maybe there’s some kind of racial problem. There must be a lot of money involved and that’s what we need to find out about. I don’t like being in the dark and I don’t like being treated like an imbecile by some arrogant shit who talks like Shakespeare.” Coetzee lit up one of his cheroots and went to sit at the other side of the desk.

  “Forget that for now.” Nwosu said. “Call the guard and tell him I want to see him here in…” he looked at his watch, it was nine fifteen, “three hours. I’m sending
him on a little holiday as a bonus for his good work.”

  Coetzee made the call, telling the guard that his sharp eyes had helped to locate the boy and he was to be rewarded with a bonus. The man was excited and relieved. After the woman’s attack on him he’d been afraid he’d be sacked and now he would get a reward. This was a good day.

  “I’ve got to get back to check on the boy again.” Coetzee went to the door. “I’ll be here at ten thirty to talk to the Stewart woman. Keep her warm until I get here.”

  Nwosu watched him walk along the corridor, a cynical smile on his lips. Idiot! He said to himself.

  TEN

  Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa

  Sergeant Nwosu came to meet Emma in the little reception area. “Good morning Mrs Stewart. I hope you’re feeling much better today, after your awful night. I’m really sorry about what happened, but believe me, we’re on top of the situation and I’m confident we can get your son back very quickly.”

  Emma followed him into the same room they’d been in the previous night. He sounds like a second hand car dealer, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Thank you, Sergeant. I’m sorry I got upset last night. It was all such a shock I lost control of my emotions.” She saw that the laptop and projector were still on the table. Good. She sat next to the computer. The laptop was open with the screen saver running. It was a photograph of Cape Town, with Table Mountain in the background. The icons were listed down the left side of the screen.

  The policeman looked fresh and polished, as if he’d had ten hours sleep and been to a barber before coming to the station. “Never mind, Emma. May I call you Emma?” He gave her what he imagined was an irresistibly trustworthy smile.