The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “I could do that. Why do you need it?”

  “I’m sorry to say, but it’s a matter of money, as are so many things these days. Our partners agree to make the additional payment to you, which is comforting, but being rather less naïve than myself, they would like to receive what is, I believe, known as proof of life, a photograph taken today.”

  Coetzee weighed up his options. He still needed to buy as much time as he could. This was one way of gaining some time and might even produce some money into the bargain. “I’ll take one and send it to you now,” he answered. “Give me the email address. I haven’t got my laptop handy.” He waited, hoping that the Voice might make another tiny error, but it didn’t happen.

  He wrote down the Azerbaijan address that they had always used. “Right. It’ll be with you in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mr Coetzee.” The Voice rang off.

  He picked up the newspaper and went back outside. “Right, Leo. I need another photo. Put that chair back up against the wall. Things are starting to happen. It won’t be long now.” He tried to sound confident but inside he was feeling very anxious. He would have been more worried if he’d known that he was about to make a mistake. A very big mistake.

  Marbella, Spain

  At six forty-five, Leticia received a call on her mobile. “Bonsoir chéri,” she answered then continued in Spanish. “Where are you? It’s Patrice”, she mouthed to Jenny and walked out of the kitchen to talk to her fiancé.

  Encarni had gone home and Emilio was watching television in the living room. Emma was upstairs, resting from the ordeal of keeping up appearances for the whole afternoon.

  “How is he?” Jenny asked when she returned.

  “Very tired, I think. This big transaction he’s working on is taking it out of him. He’s coming home tomorrow, so you’ll see him at the weekend.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In London, I think. I never know where he is when he’s running around like this.”

  “They told me at the bank he was off on another trip. Was he only here for a day?”

  “I suppose so, but it’s very hard to keep up with his travelling.”

  Leticia’s voice had a dejected note, unlike her usual bubbly self. Jenny decided to drop the subject. Strange that he comes to Marbella then flies up to London, she reflected. It’s not exactly the shortest route.

  Leticia said, “Do you think you could find the time to help me with something tomorrow? I mean with Emma being here and everything.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Well, you’re so clever with money and banks and I’m not. There’s some papers I’d like to ask you about, financial papers.”

  “We can look at them now if you like.”

  “Not tonight. I have to put Emilio to bed, he’s tired with all the travelling. Perhaps in the morning?”

  “Very well. I hope it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Probably not but I’d like your advice.” Leticia brought her son to say goodnight and they went along to their apartment.

  Jenny watched them disappear along the corridor, a worried frown on her face. She went upstairs to check on her sister.

  London, England

  The Voice’s laptop pinged. It was the message from Coetzee. It simply said, Photo attached, as per your request. I’ll contact you again when we manage to meet up with your colleagues. MC.

  The attachment was a snap of Leo sitting against a wooden wall, looking very fed up. He was holding a copy of the Mail and Guardian, in front of him, folded so that the front page displayed that morning’s headlines and date.

  In between Leo’s hands was the local news headline, Suspicious Death in Mayfair.

  “It seems that our Mr Coetzee has a sense of humour. A gentle reminder of the increasing body count in this business.”

  “Here. Let me blow it up so we can take a good look at it.” His companion zoomed the photo up to twice its size and moved the view to the top of the page. “That’s better. Thursday, July 15th 2010. It’s definitely today’s paper, but we knew that from the headline. Wait. There’s something scrawled in the top margin.” A moment later the faint handwriting became legible. It read, Olifantsrivier Lodge.

  “Well, well! It appears that our Mr Coetzee has been rather careless. He has the boy and now we know exactly where they are. I think it’s time for another call to Harare,” said the Voice. “Well done to your inquisitive nature.”

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  Leo had found a weapon. An unimpressive weapon, lighter than the torch that had cracked Blethin’s skull and more difficult to wield, but a weapon no less. He held it tightly in his right hand as he came quietly out to the terrace. I’m sorry, Marius, he apologised silently, but I have to get that mobile again.

  Coetzee was smoking a cheroot. Still in his bathing shorts, he was standing on the edge of the patio looking thoughtfully down into the river. He had put his Kindle away at a very critical moment in Emma’s book. Tory West was perilously near to becoming the victim of a violent death and he wanted to enjoy the chapter later, when this mess was over and he could relax for a while.

  Now, he was waiting. Just waiting for something to happen, as he had done so often in his life. Learning to master his impatient nature had been one of the benefits gained from his time in the Special Forces. Long periods of waiting, usually to no avail, listlessly smoking and playing cards with his mates, wondering why the hell he was doing this, suddenly interrupted by mad, frenetic, adrenaline-pumping mayhem; the only overriding motivation being to kill or be killed.

  He had left all that behind and he didn’t miss it at all. This was different, no mayhem involved, just a financial negotiation. As long as he could stave off the Voice’s hounds, the ball was now in Emma’s court and she had to respond. No point in sending another message until she reacted. It wouldn’t take long; she was desperate to get her son back and there seemed to be money around. He was beginning to suspect it was her sister who had it.

  A reflection in the water made him turn around, too late to prevent the heel of his own hiking boot smashing into the side of his head. Dazed by the blow, he fell backwards into the river.

  Leo dropped the boot and ran into Coetzee’s bedroom. Found the car key in the trousers lying on the bed and raced outside to the Land Cruiser. He knew the tank was full because he’d helped Coetzee empty two jerry cans of diesel fuel into it. First he took Blethin’s mobile from the glove compartment and shoved it into his pocket. Then he put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing! He tried again. Still nothing! His mother didn’t have an automatic car and he wasn’t aware that the ignition wouldn’t fire unless he pressed on the footbrake

  “That was very unfriendly, Leo. I might have drowned if you’d knocked me unconscious.” Coetzee had pulled open the door. He was dripping water from head to foot and holding his bruised temple.

  “Kidnappers have to expect that kind of treatment, Marius. You should know that.”

  “Come on, give me the key and get out. I’ll forgive you on this occasion but my patience is wearing very thin, so no more heroics or I might have to show you some tricks we learned in the Special Forces.”

  Leo climbed down from the vehicle. He hadn’t really expected to be able to get away but it was a good cover for the recuperation of the phone. Coetzee seemed to have forgotten about it. He said, “Remember the war, Marius. Every prisoner had to attempt to escape and if they failed, to die in the attempt. Or try again whenever they had the chance. Don’t count on me not trying every chance I get.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Leo. Right now you’re under my protection. You’re safe, because you’re valuable to me. The minute you leave you become vulnerable, to the villains who are looking for you and to the police. They may already have been advised about your tendency to kill and wound everyone you meet. Just think about your options. Apart from me, they’re not great.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Diep
kloof, Gauteng, South Africa

  Nwosu checked his Vektor pistol once more and shoved it into the holster on his right hip. He was wearing the spare uniform that his boyfriend had brought for him with the gun from his apartment and his left arm was supported by a sling, carefully made and arranged by Jamie. He tended to preen in front of the younger man when he was in uniform. His partner couldn’t resist his authoritative appearance. He was a good looking, charismatic man, even with his bruised nose and half-closed black eye, and took advantage of it whenever he could, especially with his male friends.

  Jamie was seventeen years old, tall, slender and olive-skinned, with Mediterranean rather than African features. Lying back on the couch in just his shorts, he had soft feminine skin and hardly any hair on his body. Nwosu could barely restrain himself.

  He had also brought a new prepaid mobile. Nwosu stored Jaimie’s number along with several others in it. “Give me your phone. I’ve got to get moving.” He put the new mobile number into the boy’s phone. “That’s so you can recognise this number if I get into trouble.”

  “Are you expecting more trouble, Jonathon? You know I worry about you.”

  “Where I’m going? No chance. I’ll call you to arrange our flights when everything’s under control. It’ll be either tomorrow or Saturday, I’ve got everything planned perfectly, so don’t worry.” He wasn’t as confident as he sounded, but the truth was he didn’t have a choice. The money was still in his bank account when he’d checked earlier, but he knew he wouldn’t live to spend it if he failed to deliver the boy. Either this plan works or I’m in really deep shit.

  It was seven o’clock and dark. The drive should take about an hour at that time of night. The chances of them being in the house at eight o’clock were also high. He hadn’t called, it might have caused them to worry, but he would wait in the car if there was no one home. He had time.

  He kissed Jamie goodbye and went out to his Ford Escort, small, reliable and, fortunately for his present handicapped condition, automatic. It was too risky to take his own police vehicle in case he came across a patrol or another official car and had to explain why he was injured and away from his station. The tank was full and a backpack with his spare clothing and toilet items was on the back seat, just in case. He pulled the gear shift into Drive with his right hand and drove off into the night.

  Tzaneen, Limpopo, South Africa

  The black Mercedes was about one hundred kilometres from Phalaborwa, on the R71, a secondary road leading from Polokwane. Plato had chosen to drive as far and fast as possible on the N1 then go east across country. In fact, the drive wasn’t too bad at that hour. Traffic was light and he was able to drive at a hundred. He expected to get to his destination in an hour and a half.

  Greg was listening to music on his earphones when his mobile vibrated just before seven o’clock. He listened then said, “Hang on,” and turned to the driver. “Can you find the Olifantsrivier Lodge? It’s a tourist hotel in Phalaborwa, right on the river.”

  “Sure. I’ve been there before; I can find any place if I know the name.” He looked at his watch. “Tell them we’ll be there by eight forty-five.”

  The younger man closed the phone and sat back, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. He placed another piece of gum in his mouth. “So. Who’s this guy, Marius Coetzee and the kid? What’s the story?”

  “I don’t know and I care less. My Greek ancestor had a motto. He said, the less you know about people the easier it is to kill them.”

  Greg looked impressed. That was the longest sentence he’d heard the old man speak. “Is that right? Did he really say that?”

  “Don’t be a fucking idiot! He died a million years ago. Who the fuck knows what he said?” He gave a contemptuous laugh and lapsed back into silence.

  The big man looked at him in disgust. Arrogant bastard. Old and past it. He should retire. Maybe I should retire him myself. He shifted into a less uncomfortable position, replaced his earphones and chewed his gum.

  Plato reached for a bottle of water and took a swig. It was warm in the car and he didn’t want to get dehydrated before going into action. He wasn’t as young as Gregory Capstick anymore.

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  “Time for supper!” The blonde woman called up the stairs. “Switch off for tonight, it’s eight o’clock.”

  Five minutes later her daughter came running down to the kitchen. “What are you making? I’m starving.”

  “Pour some water and grab a couple of cokes from the fridge. I bought some pork sausages and bacon and I’m doing a fry-up. OK for you?”

  “Hmm. Sounds great. I’ll set the table.”

  At eight fifteen they were sitting eating their supper at the big oak table, chatting about the day’s events. Mobile phones and other gadgets weren’t allowed at meal times. The sun had gone down and it had become chilly, so she’d lit a fire in the wide fireplace. The sound of the crackling logs made a pleasant background noise and the flames threw shadows across the room. Old fashioned values reined in their small family and they both looked forward to this precious time together.

  The farmhouse was a massive, sprawling building, or rather a collection of buildings, that had been her ancestor’s working farm for several generations, until no one in the family wanted to farm anymore. It was situated on the south side of the R42, not far from the golf club in Delmas, a farming community of about seven thousand souls, seventy kilometres due east of downtown Johannesburg. She and her husband had spent every weekend for two years driving over from Joburg to convert it into a habitable residence. The living room consisted of three stables transformed into one vast space with crossover beams high above their heads and old fashioned wooden-framed windows on all four walls. Some of the outbuildings had been connected to the main house to form a quadrangle behind, where they’d built a swimming pool and sun deck for the children they hoped to have.

  The woman worked at the nearby Pleasant View Grape Farm, helping to grow a fine selection of table grapes, harvested for the production of a variety of white, red and rosé wines. It could hardly have been more removed from her previous job as a high profile journalist for a top-selling daily newspaper in Johannesburg, but she loved her new vocation. The predictable and never ending seasonal changes gave her a sense of comfort and certainty and the gradual transformation of the vines from dirty looking weeds to luscious fruit-bearing greenery was a continual reminder of the renewal and vitality of life.

  Above all, she relished every moment spent with her daughter, thankful every day for the divine intervention that had brought their lives together. Three years after the event, she tried not to reflect on the dreadful moments they had experienced in the township. Although through her unconscious self she re-lived the trauma too often in her dreams.

  Her reverie was broken by the barking of their two black Labradors, who raced to the front door. Her daughter got up from the table. “That’s the front door bell. Who could be calling at this time of night?”

  “Wait!” She jumped up and caught the girl’s arm. “I’ll look through the spy hole. I’ve told you before not to open the door before checking.”

  She walked through the kitchen to the entrance hall and switched on the outside light. “Oh no!” she thought, seeing the uniform through the hole. “Not another visit from the police. I thought they’d finally laid it all to rest.” She called out, “Who is it? What do you want?”

  “Good evening,” a man’s voice answered. “I’m Sergeant Bongani from Johannesburg Police Department. I’m very sorry to trouble you, but it’s about your husband. Can I please speak to you for a moment?”

  The woman looked worriedly at her daughter. “Take the dogs upstairs and I’ll bring him into the living room. It’s probably nothing important.” She sounded more confident than she felt. Why would a policeman from Johannesburg be knocking on their door at eight in the evening? Has something happened to Marius?

  She pulled back the deadbolt and
unlocked the door. “Good evening, Officer” she said nervously. “What’s happened?”

  It was ninety-four and a half hours since Leo had been taken.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  Leo was in the toilet with the door locked, checking Blethin’s phone. There was no text from his mother and the red warning light was on. The screen read, Emergency calls only.

  He quickly typed, at Olifantsrivier Lodge in Phalaborwa with Coetzee. Plse come for me. LXX

  As he pressed Send, the screen went dark and the phone died in his hand. “Shit.” He put it back in his pocket then flushed the toilet, ran the tap in the wash basin and went out to the terrace, wiping his hands. Coetzee was preoccupied with his laptop and didn’t pay any attention to him.

  “Are we going to have anything to eat?”

  The South African looked up and laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone or anything eat as much as you can, and that includes a twenty-ton elephant. Get the room service menu.”

  They were looking at the menu when Nwosu’s mobile rang. It was a Joburg number that Coetzee didn’t recognise. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll see who this is.” He walked into the living room. “Hello?”

  Nwosu’s voice said, “There’s someone who wants to talk to you, Marius. Hold on.”

  A moment later a woman’s voice said, “Coetzee, I’m so sorry.” He heard a sob and nothing more.

  “Karen?”

  Nwosu came back on the phone. “That’s right, Coetzee. I’m presently a guest in Karen and Abby’s house. It’s a very nice place as I’m sure you know.”

  “What the fuck do you want, Nwosu?”

  “Don’t get upset, Coetzee. Something precious might get broken. You know what a short temper I have. I’ve got a very simple transaction to propose. Would you like to hear it?”