The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “It seems that our target has left Phalaborwa. He was in a lodge there and he’s checked out. The problem is that I don’t know where he has gone and I need to make contact with him.” The Voice’s companion gave him an amused look, mouthing ‘make contact’?

  Simon breathed a sigh of exasperation. “Right. I’ll ask for a trace immediately and get back to you.” He terminated the call and rang the technician in charge of the monitoring with the new instructions.

  He sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and wondering what his old college mentor was doing tracing someone in South Africa. His usual requests involved tracking animals or precious artefacts or other strange objects which he deliberately asked nothing about. If the Master was involved in smuggling or anything similar he preferred not to know about it. But this was a different kettle of fish. Why would he be tracking someone via their mobile phone when he could just call them up directly? I can’t think of any reason which wouldn’t be illegal and I don’t want to tick that particular box. He decided he would become unavailable for any future requests from the man. It was becoming too risky for him and his company.

  London, England

  It was eight thirty before the Voice’s telephone rang.

  “Simon. Thank you for calling back. I see from the map that our target could be driving east, west or south. Which is it?”

  “I have no idea. That’s why I’m calling so late. We can’t trace the phone at all.”

  A shiver ran down the Voice’s spine. This was not the time to lose Coetzee and the boy. “How can that happen? Has he switched it off or thrown it away?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t find it on the network. It probably just means that he’s driving and there aren’t any transmitter masts nearby. South Africa is a very big place and there are enormous areas where there isn’t any mobile connectivity. I’ve been looking at the network coverage and whichever way he drives from Phalabarwa, there are very few masts, because there’s hardly anyone or anything there.”

  “I see. So there’s no way that we can trace him at the moment?”

  “The problem is that if the masts are very far apart, he won’t stay in contact for long enough for us to get a fix. We need a short period of continuity to be able to identify the address and match the signal to at least one mast. The maximum coverage for a GSM transmitter is four kilometres. If he’s driving at a hundred an hour, that gives us about a two minute spot between the entry and exit of the transmitter range. I’ve given instructions to set up a search on an area of one hundred clicks around Phalabarwa in every direction. As soon as he passes an area with enough masts, I should be able to give you his whereabouts within a four kilometre range.”

  “Assuming of course, that he hasn’t discarded the phone or switched it off.”

  “Exactly. If that’s the case I’m afraid even our technology can’t help.”

  “Well, thank you and I’ll await your news.” He closed the phone.

  “You’ll have to call Harare, I suppose.” The Voice’s companion lit up a cigarette. “Their men are sitting waiting in the middle of nowhere. They won’t be very happy with us. It’s been a long day and now a long night.”

  “Indeed. However, they are being remunerated. I’ll call now and tell them to be patient. We unfortunately have no alternative.”

  “And what if we’ve lost them completely? If Coetzee has realised the danger of the phone and switched it off or thrown it away?”

  “I feel that is highly unlikely. It is his only means of communication with us, he won’t want to cut that thread until he is good and ready. After all, we are the channel to the money. He believes he is manipulating us, even though it is the contrary that is true, I am confident that we will find him again soon. Please pour me a glass of wine and try to be patient.”

  Over Germany, en route for Johannesburg, South Africa

  “Can I get you a drink, sir? Champagne or something else?” The Lufthansa air hostess was rather pretty, about thirty, with a charming smile.

  Why not? Thought Espinoza. It’s a shame to waste the business class privileges. “A small glass of champagne would be welcome, thank you.”

  The hostess poured him a generous glass and placed a packet of savoury snacks on his table. He took a sip, Hmm, cool and delicious. Opening up his notebook, he started rereading everything from the beginning. He was looking forward to his meal and then to a good night’s sleep. He wondered what was happening in Polokwane and Marbella. We’ll find out soon enough tomorrow.

  Marbella, Spain

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam. Emma and Leticia are still here so I wouldn’t be able to spend much time with you for a few days anyway. Call as soon as you get back and we’ll arrange dinner, just the two of us.” Jenny breathed a sigh of relief and after exchanging fond farewells she closed the phone.

  The Moroccan had called as she was getting ready for bed to say that he had to leave early the next morning for a few days. Now she could forget the subterfuge around Leo until he returned and with luck the trauma might be resolved by then. One less complication to worry about, she thought. But I am looking forward to some time with him when it’s over. This week is hard work, even for my only sister.

  After sending the messages to Coetzee and ARGS, the two women had gone up to their bedrooms. They were both exhausted. Emma was trying to take her sister’s advice; to focus her mind, think constructively and avoid becoming too distraught and overwhelmed by the ongoing situation. Jenny, pragmatic as always, was assessing the chances of arranging a large amount of money, in cash, to be available to Pedro, eight thousand kilometres away, within a few days. She climbed wearily into bed, wondering what tomorrow would bring, trying not to imagine all the things that could go wrong.

  Gravelotte, Limpopo, South Africa

  Coetzee drove past Gravelotte, on the R71, at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. It was just before ten o’clock, there was virtually no traffic on the road and he was ahead of his own tight schedule. Leo was snoring quietly beside him and his headlights were now pointing towards Polokwane. He calculated their arrival in Johannesburg in about five hours. That would give him the leeway he needed to execute his plan. He let the window down a little and lit a cheroot, holding it near the gap to carry the smoke away from the boy. He was momentarily surprised at his consideration. Getting too fond of him, he mused.

  He had driven past two small townships so quickly that the Telkom GSM network hadn’t even registered his presence, but the Land Cruiser had now been in range of the masts in Gravelotte for over two minutes. In Cambridge, the EzeTracker technician saw the IP address pop up on his screen. He quickly identified the transmitting mast then compared it with the next one to appear. He called Simon Pickford, who was now at home and enjoying his well-earned glass of wine. The target was going west towards Polokwane on the R71. Simon called his mentor and the Voice called Harare. The re-entry into cellular coverage also caused Blethin’s battery-dead phone, which had been asleep, to awaken for a tiny moment, consigning Leo’s text message to the Telkom spectrum, on its way to his mother’s phone in Spain.

  It was ninety-six hours since Leo had been taken.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  “Gravelotte? You’re fucking joking! We came through there two hours ago in the opposite direction.” Greg had answered the mobile since Plato was out of the car relieving himself. He hadn’t accepted the younger man’s suggestion of waiting in the lodge and getting something to eat. It was almost ten pm and after the long drive down from Beitbridge then waiting in the car for an hour in an icy silence Greg was tired, hungry and in a foul mood. “I’ll tell Plato. If we don’t call back then we’re on our way. How often are you checking the direction?”

  Plato listened without comment to Greg’s report then they climbed back into the Mercedes. A moment later, the limousine was on the road again, driving at a hundred and twenty kilometres per hour towards Gravelotte, then Polokwane. They wer
e sixty minutes behind Coetzee and Leo.

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  The woman and her daughter were lying on a settee curled up together, fast asleep. Nwosu looked at his watch. It was almost ten thirty, time to get things moving. He went to the corridor and called his own mobile number again.

  “What is it, Nwosu?” Coetzee sounded irritated.

  “Where are you, Marius? Are you on your way with Leo?”

  “No, Nwosu. I’m driving through the Kruger with a chimpanzee. Don’t be such a bloody idiot, of course we’re on our way, approaching Polokwane, and the less you call me, the faster I’ll get there, so piss off and leave me in peace.”

  “See you later, Marius.” The policeman reflected for a moment then called the Brussels number he’d stored in the disposable phone.

  “Who is this?” Although he hadn’t recognised the number, despite the slightly distorted words the Voice sounded as calm and collected as always.

  “It’s Sergeant Nwosu. Is this a good time to talk?”

  After the usual pause, the Voice replied, “Sergeant Nwosu, how pleasing to hear from you.” Another pause. “Unfortunately I can’t speak at the moment. Can I call you back in a minute or two on this number?”

  London, England

  The Voice and his companion had been watching Mathew Bourne’s Swan Lake on the Sky Arts Channel. He pressed the ‘Record’ button and regretfully switched off the TV. “We’ll finish watching that later. So, our missing sergeant has emerged from the twilight zone of Polokswane. Let’s find out where he is calling from and if he tells us the truth, shall we?”

  He called another number. “Simon, dear boy, I hope I’m not interrupting your evening too much but I’m afraid I need to ask one last favour.”

  Five minutes later he called Nwosu’s number back, the connection now being followed by the EzeTracker network. “Sergeant, I apologise for keeping you waiting, but I’m rather busy as you may imagine. I understand from your colleague, Mr Coetzee, that you have been incapacitated. Are you fully recuperated now?” He waited, wondering what pretext he would hear next.

  “I’m fine. Just a shoulder problem that needed attention. It’s fixed now and we can get on with the transaction.”

  “That is indeed good news. Is the boy with you?”

  “He’s arriving shortly with Coetzee. I just talked to them.”

  “Excellent. And may I enquire where you are awaiting them, Sergeant?”

  “We’re meeting here in Polokwane, then driving up to Beitbridge. We’ll be there in the morning. This time nothing’s going wrong.”

  “I see.” The Voice smiled grimly. “Then let’s leave it like that until Mr Coetzee and the boy arrive then you could perhaps kindly call me again.”

  His companion said, as he put down the phone, “I’ll be very surprised if he’s still in Polokswane.”

  “It’s possible, because that’s where Coetzee is headed with the boy. In any event, we’ll know as soon as Simon calls back.”

  A few minutes later, Simon Pickford informed him that the second phone was in Delmas, Johannesburg.

  “It’s a small farming town in the east suburbs of Johannesburg,” his companion showed him on the iPad.

  “I see. So Nwosu and Coetzee are both lying to us, but it seems that neither knows that the other is in contact, nor what they are saying. It’s possible that Coetzee could be heading there with the boy, since the fastest route from Phalaborwa is via Polokwane, down the N1. But I’m at a loss to decide which of their conflicting histoires is closest to the truth, if either.”

  “I’m trying to find the location in Delmas. If I put in the exact coordinates then look on the street map, there’s only one property it can be. See?” The photograph showed a long empty road leading out of Delmas with one large house at the end, bordered by empty fields. “It looks like a farm, there are several buildings all grouped together.”

  “Can you find the exact address and discover who lives there?”

  “It’s on Groot Street, but I can’t find the number. There are only four houses at the beginning of the street and this one right at the end. I’ll pull up the street directory.”

  The Voice poured out two more glasses of Burgundy as the woman continued the search.

  “Here we are. It can only be the first or last street number, so we’ve got a choice of number one, that’s a Veterinary Office, or number five, Ms Karen Spellman. What do you think?”

  “Is there any chance of finding her on the Internet?”

  “I doubt it, considering there are six point nine billion people who aren’t on it. But I’ll look anyway.” Her fingers travelled quickly over the iPad keyboard. “She is in here, lots of entries. She’s a journalist in Johannesburg, quite well known, it seems. Let me open this one about an award she won.”

  The Voice turned in distaste at the exclamation that followed. “I don’t believe it! You really are the luckiest man in the world. Look at this.”

  “You know I hate reading those screens. Please quote it to me without undue excitement.”

  “This is from November, 2007. Karen Spellman was awarded the runner up prize for the Taco Kuiper award. That’s a journalistic award for investigative reporting, apparently. It says here that she wrote a series of articles on the challenges of post-apartheid hardships suffered by the blacks. The articles were instigated by her capture in the previous March by white supremist gunmen in a school in Alexandra, along with a group of black teachers, schoolchildren and their parents.”

  “I’m sorry, but I fail to understand how…..”

  “Please just wait. The kidnapping was foiled by a major in the Special Forces who captured the supremists single handed and saved the lives of all of the hostages. Would you like to know who he was?” This last question was issued in a smug tone.

  “I can hardly control my excitement.”

  “Major Marius Coetzee! And, before you interrupt again, he is Ms Spellman’s husband!”

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  Nwosu made himself comfortable in an armchair and closed his eyes. Everything was back on track and he could get a well-deserved rest. He let his mind drift to Jamie, the money and Mozambique.

  R 71, near Gravelotte, Limpopo, South Africa

  “New orders from Harare. Do you want to stop?” Greg stopped scribbling and held the phone away in case the driver exploded. He had driven in a state of silent rage for the last thirty minutes, the atmosphere in the car becoming more frigid by the kilometre.

  “Where is it this time? Disneyworld? Just tell me where and if I don’t have to turn around again, we’ll go.”

  “It’s a place called Delmas, east of Joburg. We’ve got the name, street and house number, everything. They’ll all be there. Coetzee, the cop and the kid. There’s a woman there as well, they said. It actually sounds right this time.”

  “How the fuck do you know whether it’s right or wrong? Wait.” He entered the destination into the Satnav. “I’m taking a left here and going down past Lydenburg to the N4. It cuts out Polokwane and Pretoria and it’ll be faster than going through the toll stations. Tell them we’ll be there in five hours or so. I’ll give it this one last try and if it’s crap, we’re going home.”

  Greg relayed the message and sat back, trying to get comfortable. His stomach was aching with hunger and he was full of gas. He needed to ask for a pit stop, but it wasn’t a good time. He hated this old man.

  London, England

  “Well that was almost as enjoyable as the original production at Sadler’s Wells.” The Voice switched off the TV. “Were you ever fortunate enough to see it?”

  “No. You know I haven’t been in England for very long. It’s a controversial version. Was it a success?”

  “You mean the prince and the male swan pairing? It was much more successful than the traditional production. It ran forever in London and New York and is still produced all over the world. I personally prefer the story like this. It’s someho
w much more nostalgic.”

  “I suppose that should tell me something about ballet lovers. But I’m not a highbrow, so I’ll take your word for it.”

  The Voice laughed. “Touché,” he said. “Now it’s time to conclude our business for the day. Please send the edited photograph to Ms Stewart’s email address without any comment whatsoever. If she’s still awake she will worry about it all night. If she’s already asleep I’d like it to be the first thing she sees tomorrow morning, by which time her son will be once more in our possession.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you talking so cruelly. It’s not like you.”

  “I confess that I am becoming rather frustrated with this business. What seemed like a fairly simple plan has become all too complicated. I dislike complications and I dislike schoolboys and I shall be very glad when we terminate the programme successfully.”

  The woman registered this remark without comment. She pressed the Send button.

  He heard the familiar ‘whoosh’ as the photo left the laptop, on its way via the Philippines address to Emma’s mailbox. “Excellent, well done! Now, it’s quite late so you are welcome to stay the night if it is more convenient for you.”

  “I’d rather not if you don’t mind. Our funder is arriving tomorrow and I want to be presentable to give assurance as to how the funds are being spent.”

  He masked his disappointment and helped her into her jacket, carefully positioning himself for the most impressive view of her magnificent bosom. Lord Arthur Dudley was bisexual but he appreciated beauty in all its forms, especially in the male or female physique. Never having seen the woman’s unclothed breasts was a constant source of disappointment and of future promise. He walked her to the apartment door. “Goodnight, Esther. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.”

  “Goodnight, Arthur, sleep well.” His companion gave him a peck on the cheek and walked up the street towards Bayswater.

  Dudley watched her gently swaying hips until she disappeared from sight then came back into the apartment. He unlocked the door to his private office, a generously sized room which no one else, not even his Philippine cleaning lady, who spoke very little English, had ever entered. The walls above the height of his desk were papered around with newspaper articles and photographs of all kinds. There were many erotic images of young men and women, mostly theatrical looking adolescents, all with fair hair. The news articles were dedicated to various felonies involving contraband, trafficking and fraudulent or financial crimes, mostly in Europe, but some in more far flung places like Singapore, South America and Australia. There were reports of the events themselves and in many cases the results of trials and prosecutions. The earliest items were from 1998 and the latest in January of the current year.