The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “Do you think anything’s happened to Jonathon?” Jamie’s voice was tremulous.

  “I sincerely hope so. You need to get out of that relationship. Nwosu is a pathological murderer and the day he drops you it’s likely to be in a grave.”

  He drew the Land Cruiser up until his front bumper touched the Mercedes. It was now disabled in one direction, reverse, and the street was a cul de sac. A slight advantage. “Come on, Leo. I’ll introduce you to my wife and daughter, since you’ve been so inquisitive about them. Don’t make any noise.”

  Leo climbed out of the car, his heart thumping and his mouth dry. He knew they were walking into an ambush, but Coetzee didn’t even seem to be concerned. He mustered up all his courage. This isn’t the time to be a wimp, he said to himself. He’s got enough to worry about without me.

  They walked softly through the dark towards the farmhouse. Coetzee knew that whatever else happened, Leo would be safe. After all, he’s the only valuable commodity worth saving.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Marbella, Spain

  Jenny was on an easy Jet flight. She was the only passenger in the plane. On every one of the other one hundred and fifty-five seats there was a brown paper parcel measuring thirty-two by thirteen by fifteen centimetres. Jenny knew that each parcel contained five thousand one dollar bills, stacked in four piles of one thousand two hundred and fifty notes, a total of seven hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. That was the final amount agreed with Coetzee for Leo’s return. This flight was the only solution she had found to make the money available in cash to Pedro Espinoza in South Africa.

  A cabin attendant in a black outfit poured her a glass of champagne. A young woman with a slim figure wearing a tight sweater that accentuated her beautifully-formed breasts. Jenny sensed she knew her but she wore a shawl over her head so her features couldn’t be seen. The champagne bottle carried the label ‘Newtown Brut’ and the wine spilled out into the glass as red as blood.

  When the passenger door opened Jenny walked out with an oversize suitcase containing all the cash. Fortunately the case had wheels, since it was so large and heavy she couldn’t lift it. She struggled along the concourse pulling the case behind her until she arrived at the top of a long flight of stairs. Scanning the crowded hall below she managed to pick out Pedro’s form. He was dressed in a smart military uniform with a large medal pinned to the breast of his tunic and wore a cap on his head with the motif ‘ARGS’. Standing next to him was a young woman in a black outfit, wearing a shawl. It was the cabin attendant, but Jenny still couldn’t recognise her from that distance. Between Pedro and the woman stood a young dark-skinned boy. It was Leo Stewart. He was standing stock still, looking straight ahead and showing no expression at all.

  Jenny somehow managed to carry the suitcase down the first of the stairs, until suddenly the handle came away in her hand. She watched helplessly as the case tumbled over and over down the staircase for what seemed like an age. Finally it landed, upright and undamaged at the bottom. The woman left the others and ran to the case as Jenny came down the stairs towards her. As she grabbed the now perfectly intact handle, she looked up the staircase and removed her shawl. Jenny gasped with shock. It was Leticia da Costa! She smiled at Jenny then turned and ran out of the hall with the bag rolling along behind her. Before Jenny could react, she had disappeared from view.

  She walked across to Pedro and shook his hand. “Well, the money’s gone,” she said. “But we’ve got Leo back and that’s all that counts. Well done Pedro.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that.” He turned to the boy. “Look.”

  Jenny stepped closer to Leo, only to realise it wasn’t him at all. It was a life size waxwork. A perfect replica of Emma’s son that had cost her seven hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.

  Jenny awoke in a sweat and looked at the illuminated clock on her bedside cabinet. It was four in the morning. She knew something had happened or was going to happen, but she didn’t know what and Jenny didn’t like not knowing things. Her dreams were often prescient but she never knew in exactly what way. She switched on the light, took her pad and scribbled down a few notes from her memory of the dream. A vague impression of something or someone else lingered at the edge of her subconscious but she couldn’t bring it back to mind. Espinoza had to be called as soon as possible. There were some things that she now knew for certain, but how could she convince him of the source of her knowledge? She switched off the light and tried to get back to sleep.

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  Coetzee walked up the driveway to the farmhouse, ensuring that Leo kept behind him at a safe distance. The door was ajar, the security chain hanging down with its bracket still attached. He quietly pushed it open and strolled into the living room leaving Leo in the hallway. Quickly taking in the scene, he was relieved to see Karen and Abby at the far end of the room. They looked unhurt but terrified. Nwosu was sitting near the dining area. He was holding his arm as if it was damaged. A huge black man, virtually a giant, was relaxing on the couch near the fireplace and another, hard faced, older character in shirtsleeves was sitting at the table, his pistol in front of him. No one was speaking. Half-empty dishes of food lay on the table.

  “Marius!” Karen shouted across the room. “Watch out, they’re armed and they want Leo.”

  Plato grabbed his pistol from the table and disengaged the safety. The Makarov would now fire once with a long, strong squeeze of the trigger then in single action with short, light trigger squeezes. He held it with his elbows on the table to give himself more stability and a better aim. “Are you Coetzee?”

  He walked past the table to the centre of the room and stood in front of the fireplace, where there was more space. “That’s right. And I’m unarmed.” Turning to face them he held his arms apart to show he wasn’t carrying a gun. “Who are you?”

  “Plato. I’m taking the kid to Zimbabwe.” When Coetzee didn’t respond, he went on, “Why have you got him? What’s your job?”

  Once again Coetzee said nothing, He was waiting for an opening. Being patient, biding his time. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Leo moving towards the fireplace. Stay out of it, kid, he willed him silently. You’re not the one who’s in danger.

  He grimaced when Karen shouted out, “He’s just an accountant. He doesn’t have anything to do with this. He just came to collect the money.” She obviously knows the whole story, he realised. Nwosu’s been spreading his poison.

  “Don’t be fooled by her. He’s a Special Forces guy. He was a major. He got a medal.” Nwosu tried to inveigle some good will from the two Zimbabweans. “He set the entire operation up. He’s the brains behind the whole abduction.”

  At this, Greg sat up and took notice. “Special Forces, eh? So you’re a tough guy, a white gangster beating up on poor black folk?” He spat on the floor. “Put that Makarov away, Plato. I’ll show you what I think of Special Services officers, bunch of fucking murdering cowards.” It was time to show Plato what he could do, time to get a little respect. He stood up and advanced on Coetzee, punching him in the chest.

  Plato said nothing. The feel of his index finger on the trigger gave him an exciting, almost sexual feeling of power. He didn’t want Greg to master Coetzee, he wanted to shoot him to death. To shoot him in the feet and knees, in the legs and the arms, in the stomach and the chest until he begged for the last bullet that would put him out of his misery. He waited to see what would happen.

  Coetzee fell away with the punch, turned and lashed out a kick at the Zimbabwean’s crutch, which was almost at the height of his shoulder. Greg caught his foot and twisted it, sending him crashing to the ground. On his knees, he grabbed the giant’s ankle and managed to bring him to the floor beside him, his arm around his neck, trying to get a head lock on his opponent to force him down to his height where he had some chance of inflicting damage to his eyes or throat.

  Greg’s great ham fist smashed down on Coetzee’s head and knocked him
flat out on his back on the floor, arms and legs akimbo. The huge Zimbabwean knelt beside him and took his head between his hands, ready to twist and break his neck like a chicken. Leo looked on in horror, fearful of what was about to happen. Karen held Abby close, turning her face away from the awful scene being played out in front of them.

  “Do it slow and painful,” Plato barked across the room.

  Greg turned his head and looked at him scornfully. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, old man.”

  Coetzee pulled the short, flat handled throwing knife from the sheath strapped to the inside of his left wrist and plunged the needle-sharp blade up into the back of the huge man’s neck, exactly through the belly of the tattooed gazelle. The blade slid up alongside the spinal cord behind his ear and entered the cerebellum, the brain’s movement regulator. Greg put his hands to his head and screamed, a primal, animal scream, and his eyes rolled around in his head. Then like a grotesque giant marionette he fell sideways towards Coetzee.

  The South African hauled Greg’s massive body over himself just as Plato loosed off a fusillade of shots, sending blood and flesh flying around the room from the now lifeless giant. Cartridge shells sprayed out behind him onto the floor. The full complement of eight shots spent, the Zimbabwean picked up a new magazine from the table in front of him.

  Leo grabbed the iron poker standing beside the fireplace and smashed it across the gunman’s back. He dropped the magazine onto the table and as he leaned forward to reach for it, in one swift, coordinated movement, Coetzee pushed Greg’s body away and pulled the blade from the dead man’s skull. He threw it with deadly aim straight into Plato’s chest.

  “Fuck!” The hit man looked down in amazement at the handle sticking from his shirt front and fell forward onto the table top.

  It took Coetzee, Leo and Jamie a half hour to bring the Mercedes to the door and haul the two bodies out of the house and into the car. Greg must have weighed a hundred and fifty kilos. Nwosu was now locked in the upstairs bedroom with the dogs. His wrist was excruciatingly painful and he was a nervous wreck after witnessing Coetzee’s one man killing-machine demonstration, wondering what might be in store for him. Karen and Abby, having seen him in action three years before, were remarkably calm after their ordeal, and set about cleaning the living room. The washing and scrubbing was a good form of therapy, but just being alive and together was enough.

  Karen was desperately worried about Leo’s abduction, but he seemed to be alright and Marius had saved the situation again, in such an infuriating fashion, so she didn’t question him, for now. He’d hugged them both and simply said. “I’m sorry, that was all my fault.” She knew she’d have to worm the story out of him, as usual, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. She’d have to bide her time. After what he’d accomplished he deserved some quiet.

  Coetzee drove for about five kilometres east along the R50 and turned off onto an old beaten track leading to a disused slate quarry. Karen had shown him the spot when they were fixing up the farmhouse. She used to cycle there to fish with her grandparents as a child, but it hadn’t improved with the years. It was now an unkempt wilderness with used syringes, condoms and even more disgusting rubbish littered around the flat, dirty plateau at the top of the cliff. He parked the Mercedes on the edge of a twenty metre slope going down to a wide stagnant pond at the bottom. He had removed all identification papers from the men and put their mobile phones in the boot, switched off. Finally ensuring there was nothing else except the two bodies inside the car or in the boot, he opened the windows slightly then put the gear shift into neutral and turned off the engine. He tied the steering wheel to the passenger door handle and released the hand brake, climbed out and pointed the remote at the car, locking the doors. With one push from his shoulder, the limousine rolled gently forward down the slope and into the pond. It floated out to the centre before slowly disappearing into the dank depths. It saddened Coetzee to see the beautiful machine meet such an end but there was no alternative. With any luck it wouldn’t be discovered for years, if ever. Jamie, subdued and frightened, was waiting in his Ford and they drove back to the house in silence.

  In the farmhouse Leo was helping to clean up and was getting to know Karen and Abby. His first reaction had been to ask for a mobile phone to call his mother, but it was the middle of the night and he was still worried about the incriminating events he’d been involved in. He decided to wait until morning, when he could talk quietly with Coetzee and agree on a mutual truce; a life for a life. He was still coping with the revelation of his Special Forces career and his deadly skills. In the space of just four days he’d been exposed to abduction, drugging, accidental death, police corruption, violent death and now an incredible demonstration of murderous expertise from a man whom he’d taken to be an unscrupulous stadium security guard, with not many redeeming qualities. There was a lot more to Marius Coetzee than met the eye, he now realised.

  Karen didn’t question him about the abduction. Nwosu had already bragged about it to her and she didn’t know what to believe, except that the boy must have endured a very traumatic experience. Kidnapping was a serious criminal offence, far too important to be simply put aside by Marius, as she knew he did with so many things. It had to be discussed, examined and somehow resolved, but it wasn’t the time for that yet. She kept the conversation as light as possible in the circumstances, talking about schooling and life in the UK and South Africa. Successfully engaging Leo with her and Abby and moving them both away from the horrific scene they had just experienced.

  He would occasionally ask a question, trying to get to know more about them and about the man who had taken him away from his mother so brutally. Wondering why they were no longer together and what the story was behind their African child, Abby. And why would a highly decorated SA Special Services Officer kidnap him, an unknown, unimportant schoolboy from Newcastle? Trying to understand why that same man would risk his own life to save his. Despite his recent experiences, deep down he was beginning to admire Marius Coetzee.

  It was one hundred and three hours since Leo had been taken.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  London, England

  At six forty-five am Lord Arthur Dudley called his contact in Harare. Despite having heard nothing since the previous evening he had slept well, was trying to remain positive and enjoying his morning cup of tea. He was looking forward to some good news about the recapture of Leo Stewart. His frame of mind changed when he was informed that the field agents had not been in contact since they were instructed to drive to Delmas. The man agreed to contact them and find out what the situation was.

  Dudley showered and dressed in a sombre mood. The funder was arriving in a couple of hours and he had absolutely no news of the whereabouts of Leo Stewart. He was sitting waiting anxiously by the phone and snatched it up on the first ring. His heart stopped at what he heard. The contact gave him the news that the field agents could no longer be contacted, their phones appeared to be switched off. He immediately called EzeTracker.

  Cambridge, England

  Simon Pickford was an early riser and in his office by seven in the morning. He grabbed a coffee from the machine in the hall and went into his inner sanctum. His phone rang as he walked into the office, it was Tom Owen, his chief technical officer.

  Pickford replaced the phone. He had awoken with Lord Dudley’s questions still foremost in his mind and he was concerned. Now he had just been informed that the two mobile phones were in Delmas, obviously because the person they had been tracking from Phalaborwa had driven there during the night. This whole scenario was looking more and more dubious. His ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing again. Dudley was seeking an update and sounded less ebullient than usual.

  He reported the latest news and waited for his mentor’s reaction. Dudley seemed rather preoccupied and merely thanked him. Pickford opened up his laptop. He was asking himself again why the man would be secretly tracking two people in South Africa when he had their mobile phone nu
mbers? And now they were both in the same locality. With a fortune in the bank and a public company to protect he couldn’t afford to take the chance of being involved in anything compromising. He owed Dudley a lot, but there were limits.

  He searched online for the name of a local newspaper in Phalaborwa. There was nothing. He checked for Polokwane and found the Observer and the Express. Both newspapers carried stories of a mysterious death the previous day, a murdered white man whose body had not yet been identified. A cold chill ran down his spine. What were the odds against the two events, his Master’s initial request, to find someone in Polokwane, and a murder occurring there on the same day, being a coincidence? He was a mathematician and he knew the answer was, not great. He needed to cover his backside before anything happened that might implicate him. Looking up the contact list on his mobile he found the number of an old college friend in London, Detective Inspector Callum Dewar at Scotland Yard.

  London, England

  Lord Dudley was becomingly increasingly worried. From Pickford’s report, it seemed that both Coetzee and Nwosu were now in Delmas, presumably with Leo Stewart. What was more, the two agents sent down to neutralise them and snatch the boy had disappeared off the face of the earth. Why would they not be answering their phones, he asked himself. It could only be because they didn’t want to or weren’t able to. Either explanation was very worrying and he had no way of finding out which it was. He thought of calling one or other of Nwosu’s mobile numbers but decided it was too risky. If there was some plan being hatched between them, or if on the contrary there was a disagreement, his intervention might alert them and cause further disruption to the programme.

  He called back the intermediary in Harare to ask if they had any resources available in Johannesburg in the event he might need assistance. After receiving so many instructions and counter-instructions and with two of his agents missing, the man was rather uninterested. He said his first priority was to locate them. If he had the time he would check and call back if they could offer any further help. Dudley sat waiting nervously.