Coetzee was assessing the options one last time, as he’d done so many times in the army. If he refused to take Leo he would lose control of him and then who knew what might happen. The only way he could prevent that was to execute the plan.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll get you all up there and then I’ll decide what happens next.” They agreed he would pick up Leo and the doctor and meet Nwosu at twelve o’clock outside the hotel Packard. With any luck they’d get to Beitbridge by nightfall. He left Nwosu and as he went out he called Lambert.
“Barry, there’s been some developments. We’re taking the kid off your hands. We’re moving him.”
“That’s great news!” Lambert sounded relieved. He’d done his job. All he wanted was to get rid of Leo, be paid and get on with his life. That probably included leaving South Africa. He had gone into the arrangement without thinking too much about the consequences, but the sight of Leo, drugged and helpless, had jolted him back to reality. Kidnapping wasn’t for him, he’d decided.
“First, I want you to take a picture of Leo from the CCTV film and email it to me. Make sure he looks happy. Then pack his belongings, ready to leave. You can pay the nurse and send her home. I’ll be over at midday to take the kid.” He thought for a moment. “Get the Doc to fix a needle to keep him quiet for a couple of hours just in case. He’s going to be very upset that his mother isn’t there.”
Coetzee had closed his office in Joburg when he was awarded the contract for the soccer stadium. He had moved into Soccer City when the refurbishment work was being finished in late 2009 and it was one of the few good commercial decisions he’d taken. He had much more space at a fraction of the cost and his permanent staff, all seven of them, loved being in the sports environment. Their first contract included eight World Cup matches, including the final, plus the SA v New Zealand Tri-Nations rugby match which was to be played in August. He called his PA to tell her he was taking a couple of days off. They had, for once, enough money in the bank to pay the salaries and suppliers and were well staffed with temporary workers during the anticlimactic run down after the big match. He’d managed to make enough to pay his staff for the last two years, but he’d never been able to take a salary for himself. Now, he knew he never would, but it didn’t matter anymore.
He went back to his apartment in Parktown, in north Joburg, to pack for the trip. For a single man his bedroom was exceptionally tidy, a discipline drilled into him in the army. It took just a couple of minutes to throw a few articles of clothing and toilet items into a duffle bag. An envelope under the mattress containing his cash reserve went into the money belt under his shirt. On the bedside cabinet was a silver photograph frame. He picked it up and looked at the picture. A younger Marius Coetzee in dress uniform was smiling into the eyes of his pretty blonde wife, their young daughter standing between them. A Christmas tree in the room behind them was covered in decorations and lights. It was a happy scene. He looked contented and fulfilled. It’s a long time since I felt that good, he mused. He removed the photo from the frame. The hand-written inscription on the back read, I promise to love you forever. xxx Karen. Taking a book from the cabinet he slid the photo inside and shoved it into his bag.
He took one last look around the flat, picking up a few odds and ends of interest or with good memories. There weren’t many. He didn’t intend to come back to Johannesburg. It was too dangerous and there was nothing of value to come back for. After Karen had walked out and taken Abby with her he’d moved into this cheap rental apartment with nothing to remind him of them except the photograph.
The conversation with the Voice was still running through his mind. His intention had been to deliver Leo to his family when he saw the money on his account. The move to Zimbabwe was another spanner in the works and now, he didn’t know what he was going to do. At least I’ll have him under my control until I work it out, he told himself.
It was easy to arrange the interior of the eight-seater vehicle to accommodate Leo. The third row of seats had been removed and the back area was long enough to accommodate a sleeping boy, even a six foot boy, curled up. It was a dull, cloudy day so it wouldn’t be insufferably hot in the car. The photo arrived from Lambert as he was sorting the car out. Leo didn’t look very happy, but he was sitting on the edge of his bed in a tee shirt and shorts, eating a banana. He certainly looks alive and hungry, Coetzee thought. He forwarded the snap to the email address in Azerbaijan without comment then drove to a nearby mall to buy sandwiches and drinks and withdrew as much cash as he could from the ATM. On the way to the Packard he filled up the car and got a couple of jerry cans of diesel fuel. He didn’t want to take any chances.
Nwosu checked his account on his office PC for the tenth time that morning. His eyes gleamed and he hid his delight with difficulty. The payment had finally arrived at his bank account in the Maldives, a long way from prying eyes in his home country. Many years of looking the other way, or subtly assisting criminal activities, backhanders on drug deals, some highly profitable smuggling, removing obstacles of all kinds, a little blackmail from time to time, all of these side-lines had earned him substantial payments from grateful villains. His bank balance had built up steadily and now this transfer and the last amount he’d been promised would pave the way to a new life.
He salivated at the thought of it. Although homosexuality in South Africa was not illegal, it wasn’t for the faint of heart. Quite apart from the very real risk of AIDS, regular violent riots and ‘gay bashing’ were now the norm and it was looking like it may even become outlawed, as it already was in many African countries, including the neighbouring states of Lesotho, Namibia, Botswana and Zimbabwe. Also, it somehow didn’t go with his image as a tough, ruthless cop, ready to beat the crap out of anyone who got in his way. He was living proof that being gay was no barrier to also being tough and ruthless.
This last job and I’m out of here, he thought to himself. Jamie and me on a beach in Mozambique, close enough to Maputo airport and far away from problems in Joburg. What a formula for a happy life! Mozambique was a haven of peace for people of his kind and the Maldives was a haven of financial privacy. The best of all is that the Voice is paying me to go to Zimbabwe, only two hour’s drive from the Mozambique border through the Kruger. I’ll get rid of the other two and deliver the kid and then who gives a shit what happens to him. It’s not my problem.
He announced to the duty officer that he was going on a two day trip and would call in regularly to check on things. Then he went home to pack a bag and call Jamie, trying to keep the smile off his face.
It was sixty-two hours since Leo had been taken.
THIRTY
Marbella, Spain
“I’ve never asked you how you became a best-selling author. I hate to say it but I was a bit jealous every time I saw a new book come out. I always wanted to do something glamorous in my life and become well-known, but I don’t have any talent at all.”
The two women were waiting for Espinoza to arrive to review their respective progress. Jenny was attempting to divert her sister’s mind from Leo’s predicament. She came downstairs for breakfast with dark shadows under her eyes, obviously not having slept well and then eaten almost nothing. Jenny insisted she had two cups of coffee, they needed to have their minds clear for Espinoza’s visit. She was determined to make some progress this morning.
“Glamorous?” Emma grimaced. “You must be joking. I barely scrape by and everyone passes me in the street without a second glance. And the work! You have no idea how hard it is to find more and more plots that haven’t already been done twenty times. Every book is another year of my life and I’m running out of them fast.”
“So how did you get into it?”
“Well, after Tony, I never seemed to find the right man. He was, or at least I thought he was, special, and I kept looking for that man again, but I never found him. I had to face the reality of life as a single mother and get a job. Then I had a bit of luck. I replied to an advertisement from a
publishing agency and, amazingly, they hired me. It’s lucky I enjoy reading because all I did was read manuscripts from would-be writers, all day long. If I liked the story, the partners would take a look and sometimes we’d publish them, not very often, I must say.”
She laughed out loud, much to Jenny’s surprise and pleasure. “You can’t believe the rubbish people write, most people, anyway. I could tell you some plots that you wouldn’t even begin to understand, never mind enjoy, really obscure, twisted mind stuff. Hilarious, some of it. And some so-called ‘erotic writing’ that was just an excuse to write down someone’s bedroom fantasies. But once in a while you get something really good, that grabs you, and I did see a few of them.
“I started jotting some ideas down, a lot of it plagiarised from stories I’d read. Then the big break though came when I invented these two characters, ‘Angus and Tory’. Somehow they took on a life of their own and it became easier. The first book was actually quite good and it was taken up by an independent publisher, almost a one man band, in Edinburgh. Alan Bridges, the owner, helped me to get it into shape and it sold brilliantly, the next couple as well. But then you start to become stylised and formulaic and it’s hard work to think of something new. That’s more or less where I am now, looking for a new twist to reinvent myself. It’s also why I’m broke. They’re not selling so well these days. Time for new characters or a new career.”
“And you’ve still never met the right man?”
“The nearest thing is Alan, Alan Bridges. We started going out a few years ago after he was divorced and we’ve worked out quite a good arrangement. He’s got two kids and lives in Scotland, so we only see each other from time to time. I’ll go up there to talk about my books and we might do a dinner or a show and he comes down sometimes for the weekend. It’s very nice actually, no ties, and if I don’t feel like it I just make an excuse and wait until the next occasion. I don’t want to complicate Leo’s life with a new father when he doesn’t even know what happened to the last one.”
Wanting to avoid becoming emotional about Leo again, she asked, “And you, anybody in your life?”
Jenny hesitated. She had never been one to bare her soul to the world, but it was her sister and there wasn’t much to tell. “I’m not sure,” she said with a wry frown. “Two years ago, Leticia and I went through a dreadful experience and it just about put me off people all together, men and women. After losing Ron and then that awful business I didn’t want to see anyone at all and I became a veritable hermit for over a year. I’m lucky that I don’t have to work, but there were still a lot of things I needed to sort out, legal matters and complications to do with Charlie’s business, so it all began to get on top of me.
“Then Leticia talked me round and I came down here for a couple of weeks. She was a real tonic for me. She’s lovely, clever and very good company and I started to get it back together again. Since then I come more or less every two months for a few weeks and it’s done me the world of good.”
“And the man?”
“Well, a few months ago I met someone here in Marbella. It was at a charity dinner at the Puente Romano Hotel, very posh. He was one of the sponsors in aid of a cancer charity. He used to be quite a well-known sportsman and was in the Olympic rifle team. He won a silver medal actually, at the Barcelona Olympics in 1992. There’s a big memorabilia room in his house with all the family’s cups, medals, awards and historical documents. He comes from a very good family in Agadir, you know, in Morocco. Some connection with the royal family, It’s a really ancient family, goes back to biblical days apparently.”
“He sounds too good to be true. Does he have a name?”
“Everyone calls him Sam. His actual name is a dozen words long and unpronounceable. He lives about fifteen minutes along the road, up in the Marbella gated community where the old ruler of Saudi Arabia built his palace in the seventies. Lots of Arab royalty and highly placed diplomats have homes there, there’s even a mosque on the property. It’s a fabulous house and very private, acres of land around it.
“Anyway, Patrice, Leticia’s fiancé, introduced us at the dinner and we hit it off really well. He’s very smart and sensitive with a great sense of humour and fascinating stories about his sporting career and his life here and there around the world. It made me realise how little I’ve done in my UK centric existence.”
“I hate to ask and you don’t have to answer, but have you slept with him?”
“Not yet, but I think we’re getting closer, cross fingers. I’m not that keen on jumping into bed with men I don’t really know, even after two and a half years of celibacy. So I’m still an occasional customer at Anne Summers.” She laughed self-consciously but felt the familiar pang of unfulfilled emotion. Since her husband Ron’s death in December of 2007 and the events of 2008, she had forced herself to keep busy. Busy enough to put aside thoughts of missing companionship, sex and possibly marriage, but at thirty-seven she knew that her chances of attracting a partner were not improving.
Emma saw the emotion in her face. “Am I going to get the chance to meet him?”
“He’s supposed to be coming here tomorrow for lunch. But in the circumstances I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”
“You mean because of me? Nonsense! I’d love to meet him. It’ll take my mind off our problems. Anyway, he sounds like a good catch.”
“Don’t start marrying me off just yet. But he is rather nice.”
“Well, you’ve given me a tremendous amount of good advice so can I give you one piece of my own?”
“Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“Ron’s been gone now for two and a half years, so you can’t keep hiding away from men. This might sound brutal, but you have to get on with your life again and the best way to do that is with a new partner. My arrangement with Allen isn’t ideal, but the point is it works for both of us. It keeps us sane and healthy in mind and body and free to get on with our lives. We get together when we feel the need or desire. It suits us both and that’s what counts.”
She’s right. It’s time I moved on. Past Ron, past the Angolan Clan and past the last year of stress and aggravation. Maybe Sam’s the answer. Jenny’s reverie was broken by the sound of the gate bell. “Sounds like Pedro’s here. Time to get back to work.”
Espinoza was bustled into the office by Encarni. He was a small man and she towered over him. He accepted her offer of a coffee, then sat facing the women. “Are we still agreed on last night’s decisions?”
They nodded. “Bueno.” He settled himself down. “I’ve set a few wheels in motion, so we should start to get feedback this afternoon. Meanwhile, I think I’ve validated one of Jenny’s theories.”
He handed them a printout of a newsletter from the Packard Hotel chain. “Look at the ‘Management’ section, on page three. Lambert took over at the Packard in Mayfair only two months ago.”
“That was just a month after Galaganza’s death. So he was put in place by the kidnappers in May to execute the plan in July. They didn’t waste any time, did they?”
“When did you book your trip to South Africa, Emma?”
“It was last September, when we got the results of Leo’s GCSEs. I splurged out on the tickets while they were still reasonably priced and gave them to him for his Christmas present. I made the hotel bookings at the same time. It was his reward for working so hard and finishing while still only fourteen.” She shuddered. “What a reward it’s turned out to be.”
Espinoza ignored the remark. “We’re narrowing this down. There were probably more people than you think who knew about your trip with Leo, but the plan to abduct him was only put in place in May. And it must have been planned by a person or persons who had followed the Rwandan story and heard about Galaganza dying in Benin immediately after it happened and who connected it to Leo.”
“I want you to look at these also.” He handed over two more printouts from his morning’s research. “He’s a very interesting man, Mr Coetzee, as you’ll see.”
Under the heading, Coetzee Security Services, there was a photo of the security chief wearing a safari jacket and a pith helmet, seated on a beautiful grey stallion. The introduction read, Place your Trust in a Team run by an Ex-Officer of the South African Special Forces. We understand Security and we understand your Concerns.
“He looks a lot nicer there than when I met him.”
“That’s normal. It’s his publicity face. But there’s a lot more to him than just a handsome picture.”
Jenny was reading the BIO page. “I see what you mean. He was the youngest Major in the Special Forces and was with them for fifteen years. And in 2007 he was awarded the Honoris Crux Decoration. One of very few soldiers to receive such recognition, it says here.”
“What was that for?”
“That’s just the enigma.” Espinoza frowned. “It’s awarded, and I quote from the source, for exceptional acts of bravery while in great danger. I did some more research and learned that Coetzee saved the lives of a classroom full of schoolchildren who were being held hostage by pro-apartheid militants. He was entirely on his own because the local police had refused to back him up. It was a tragic affair, apparently, but not as tragic as it could have been. The school teacher was killed together with two parents, but Coetzee overcame eight gunmen to save the lives of twelve children and four parents.”
“My God. He’s a veritable hero. It can’t be the same man who’s abducted Leo.”
“People do things for many reasons, Emma, but the more we know about what makes them tick and how they think, the more chance we have of finding out what it’s all about and how to resolve it.”
The Rwandan Hostage Page 17
