The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

  “May I take a copy and bring the original back to you?”

  A sense of foreboding entered her mind, but she said nothing in front of her son. “Of course.”

  They climbed into the Jaguar and Espinoza watched them drive away then walked over to the taxi rank. I wonder, he said to himself.

  “I think some parts of Leo’s story are invented, but in the end I don’t think it matters.” Espinoza had called Jenny from the taxi to give her a more detailed account of everything that had occurred in Johannesburg. “It seems that Coetzee was not involved at a high level. He took this job to solve his financial problems and when he realised what it entailed he backed out. But he didn’t leave Leo to his fate, he removed him from danger and probably saved his life. If you know anything about Mugabe’s country you’ll have an idea of what would have happened to him if he’d been taken there. “I would say he has probably learned his lesson and if Leo wants to leave it at that, we should let it go.”

  “It sounds as if Coetzee’s wife might have been the key to his change of heart.” Jenny said. “Although, judging from his previous background he can’t have been very comfortable in this scheme. He’s a life saver, not a life taker. To have Leo back is all that really matters and if he doesn’t want to testify against Coetzee we can’t force him to. But what about the people at the top, the real conspirators? We still know nothing about them.”

  “That’s not entirely true, I know quite a lot about them. But I’ll have more information over the weekend and I’ll keep you informed as soon as I get a clear picture. In the meantime, enjoy a quiet time with your family.” He had decided to say nothing about Leo’s revelation of the ‘Voice’. No need to disturb their enjoyment of Leo’s homecoming. It could wait until Monday.

  “A quiet time thanks to you, Pedro. Thank you for everything. Take care.”

  London, England

  Hmm. She’s quick off the mark! Arthur Dudley was looking at the Joburg bank account in Panama on his laptop. He immediately saw the transfer of twenty-five thousand dollars that morning to Esther Bonnard’s account at the Credit Bank of Guadeloupe. He supressed a laugh, Cheeky creature. He could have reversed the transaction, since the value date was not until Monday, but he decided to let it go. She deserves some recompense for her efforts and for that kiss. Besides, I’m still two hundred thousand to the good.

  He transferred the balance to the Swiss Credit Bank of Lugano, with Monday’s value date, leaving a balance of one hundred dollars to cover any late costs and to avoid further contact by the bank. The Lugano account was in the name of Arturo D’Uddlio, which he found quite amusing. He’d been a client there since long before the compliance restrictions on banks had made it almost impossible to open new accounts and it was a useful transit point. Finally, he transferred two hundred thousand dollars from Lugano to his account in the Bahamas with Tuesday’s value date to permit the arrival of the funds from Panama. It wasn’t a perfectly secure trail, but it had always served him well in the past.

  Already that morning, Dudley had deleted the Internet browsing history and every single document and message in the Leo Stewart dossier from his laptop and iPad and then permanently deleted them from the Trash files. A few years previously he had acquired a software programme written by one of his star former pupils at Cambridge, which scrambled files of every type when they were permanently deleted. Even if the files could be restored by a professional IT technician or hacker they would be incomprehensible. In his line of business he could not afford to leave traces of any kind. He replaced the Bouygues SIM from the French phone with a new one then spent an hour feeding every document concerning the abduction transaction into his shredder. He was certain that there was nothing incriminating on the T-Mobile SIM, but he replaced that one too. Although it was July, there was a fire in the grate in his office and he threw the SIM cards and paper strips onto the flames.

  He was disappointed with the outcome but he had survived many such disappointments in his career. The plan had been a good one and had failed only due to a combination of unfortunate circumstances. He had earned a reasonable fee for his services and in his estimation that was the end of the matter. He was convinced there was nothing to fear from any of the other participants. No one in South Africa knew anything about him, and Esther Bonnard and Slater had as much, if not more to lose than him. In any event, he was not directly involved in any of the criminal events that had occurred. If everyone kept their mouth shut it would be a case of mutual protection and not mutual blame.

  Dudley looked at his watch. It was twelve forty-five. He had a table booked at the Petrichor in the Cavendish for one o’clock. It was a beautiful day, so he set off on the fifteen minute walk, already savouring his champagne aperitif.

  Marbella, Spain

  “So who’s this guy, Tony Forrester? Is he my father?” Leo and his mother were in the taxi on the way to Marbella. She had coached him in what to say to Leticia and he reluctantly agreed to keep to himself what was to him an incredible adventure story. He and Emma had always been totally open with each other and now it was his turn to ask awkward questions.

  “I was expecting that. No, he’s not your father, but he had a lot to do with you becoming my son. I’ve got thirty minutes to tell you about him and why you were abducted. But first I have to tell you about an incredible girl. Your real mother, Mutesi.” Emma gathered her thoughts and began the story for the second time that week. The story of the Rwandan genocide and Leo’s biological parents.

  Malaga, Spain

  “Buen provecho amor mio. Bon appétit, dearest.” Espinoza clinked his glass of rioja against Soledad’s glass and took a slice of the delicious Iberian ham. “Did you miss me?”

  “I didn’t have time to miss you. You were hardly gone at all. How did you get back so quickly?”

  “It was partly thanks to you. You made me think about the problem in a different way and suddenly it became much clearer. You saved me a lot of time.”

  “So the case is closed? Does that mean you get paid a big bonus?”

  “It’s almost closed. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that it will never be fully wrapped up, it’s all rather complicated.” He had received an email with the photo he’d requested from DS MacCallister in Sydney, but it didn’t tell him anything for the moment.

  “You didn’t answer my question. What about the bonus? If I was of so much help I should get at least a part of it.”

  Espinoza laughed and leaned over to kiss her. “I’m sure my client will be very generous. Enough to buy you flowers in the market.”

  Marbella, Spain

  “Come and walk with us, Leo.” Jenny led the way through the house to the garden. Fortunately, Leticia and Emilio had gone to meet Patrice at the beach so that the boy’s arrival at the house aroused no complicated explanations. Jenny was overjoyed to see her nephew again and they had enjoyed a pleasant lunch on the terrace, just the three of them. Encarni didn’t speak English so they were able to talk freely about the recent events. She was happy and relieved to see that Leo seemed to be unfazed by his mother’s story, he was used to having no father and in his mind he now found that he’d had two mothers, both of whom had obviously loved and cherished him. Many of the kids at school had unhappy home lives with absent or abusive fathers or mothers or both, and he was content to have a close and loving relationship with Emma, however it had come about. But he was hiding his feelings well.

  Emma had never talked to him previously about Rwanda, restricting her short involvement in the aftermath of the genocide into a brief summary with very few details. In the taxi she didn’t disclose the identity of his presumed father, just that Mutesi had been a rape victim and she had helped her give birth before she passed away.

  At that point, he said quietly and thoughtfully, “My God. She was younger than I am when she gave birth. And then she died. That’s terrible.”

  After Emma managed to explain how she had smuggled him out of Rwanda and into England, he didn’t sp
eak for a while. “Isn’t that illegal?” He finally asked.

  “I suppose it is. But if you love someone enough, doesn’t it become perfectly legal?”

  “Is that why you did it? I was just a little African baby.”

  “Not to me. I helped to bring you into the world. Who else could care for you when Mutesi died?”

  Leo didn’t speak, just took her hand and looked at her in a way she’d never seen before.

  When she finished the story, he asked many questions about her experience at the clinic and the work she had done to save mothers and their children. What kind of a man was Tony? Why had he left her and the child he had rescued to go off with another woman? How had those events affected her life back in the UK? Leo understood the principles of cause and effect.

  As far as he could see, she had handled it brilliantly, bringing him up and looking after them both whilst finding the time to earn a living as a successful author.

  When they arrived at York House he helped her out of the taxi and gave her a tight hug. “Thanks for saving me from an African orphanage. I much prefer being Leo Stewart and having you as my mother.”

  Now, they climbed the stone staircase alongside the stream that Charlie had designed four years before at the wheel of a tractor and came to the small lake on the plateau above the house. Looking to the South, Leo had never seen such a wonderful vista. Visibility was so good that the Atlas Mountains in Morocco stood out clearly, one hundred and fifty kilometres across the Mediterranean. On arriving at the house he had realised that Aunt Jennie must be a very wealthy lady; the place was simply fabulous, but she was the nicest and most modest person he’d ever met. Over lunch they hadn’t talked about his abduction, she’d shown a lot of interest in his life, his schooling and hobbies. He knew she’d been a school teacher and had lost her husband and wondered why she hadn’t remarried and had children. He didn’t like to ask such personal questions, he’d find out in due course.

  His mother had also told him that she was prepared to pay the ransom money. She must be incredibly fond of my mom, he thought. She paid for her to escape and she was ready to pay the ransom to free me.

  “Do you know anything more about the people who abducted me? I mean the real organisers? Pedro told me that he had some ideas but he wasn’t sure yet, it needed more detective work. He seems to be really smart, he tied the murders up in South Africa in just a few hours. The police chief was on TV taking the credit, but I know it was Pedro who did all the work.”

  “Let’s put that aside for now. We’ll leave it to him and just enjoy our few days together. You’re on holiday now.”

  London, England

  Dudley had put his US mobile onto silent to avoid disturbing the other clients at the Petrichor. He had spotted two cabinet ministers at the bar and a group including a couple of TV celebrities and he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. The phone vibrated gently on the table four times whilst he was eating, always showing the same 0033 number. It was his contact in Marseille, no doubt calling about the merchandise on the Erzurat. The ship was due to dock there the following day and he had given no delivery instructions, nor did he intend to. He had employed that channel of delivery several times over the last several years, but never before involving drugs. He had always known the time would come when he would have to close it before it became compromised and him with it. That time had now come.

  The email he had sent yesterday to the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes in Montreuil, Seine-Saint-Denis, (DGDDI), would have caused quite a stir. A haul of two hundred kilos of pure heroin was substantial enough to demand immediate attention. Either the authorities had already intercepted the Erzurat at sea or they were waiting at the container port in Marseille. Whatever the case, the cargo would be confiscated and the available perpetrators, namely the ship’s captain and his contact in Marseille, would be incarcerated in a French prison. Just as it should be, he told himself. Drug smuggling is a vile business and they deserve to be severely punished.

  The trail would end there, since there had been no traceable contact with either himself or Claude Jolidon, the originator of the funding of the transaction. Both of them had used the Philippines ISP and deviated prepaid phones with foreign SIMs, which would lead nowhere. Jolidon could still be useful to him in his position at Ramseyer, Haldemann, so he had no intention of casting him aside for the moment. He wondered vaguely whether Bensouda might attempt to extract his revenge on the man, but thought it unlikely, since they could each blackmail the other and he didn’t imagine that Bensouda was the murdering type. In any case, it’s not my problem. There’s always some collateral damage in these transactions. It’s part of the risk/reward ratio.

  On his way back to his apartment he walked across St James Park to the lake in the centre. He removed the SIM from the phone and threw it into the water. Even though the chances of it being traced were next to none he didn’t want to risk it. He had another AT&T SIM in his office. The park was quiet and he decided to sit by the lake and enjoy a few minutes of sunshine. It was a shame not to enjoy such a lovely day.

  Malaga, Spain

  Espinoza awoke abruptly from his siesta. The clock on the bedside table showed seven o’clock. He got off the bed and took the mobile from his wife. “Since I’m now awake I might as well answer it. Gracias, Soledad,” he said with a smile.

  Recognising the 4122 Geneva prefix, he answered, “ Bonsoir Andréas. Thanks for calling back on a Saturday. I assume you have some news for me?”

  He listened for a few minutes then said, “Esther Rousseau, née Bonnard. I see. Why wasn’t this discovered at the time? I assumed she was a single woman.”

  The explanation didn’t seem to impress him and after a few further exchanges he said, “Never mind. I’ll do what I can with this new information. Merci et à bientôt.”

  He went downstairs where Soledad had made him coffee. “Is something wrong?”

  “I need to make two quick calls, the last for this evening.”

  The first was to Marcel Colombey, his contact in Paris. Colombey was a Senior Inspector in the Central Directorate of Judicial Police; a high-ranking officer. “Esther Rousseau, née Bonnard. That’s right. And I want you to check on another possibility.” He gave the details to the Frenchman. “It’s a long shot, but we might just get lucky.”

  Then he called Jenny, to ensure that all was well in York House. “I’ve got one or two ideas about the perpetrators,” he added. I’ll call you when I have more news.”

  He put away the mobile. “Now, Soledad. Go and get yourself ready. We’re going to Antonio’s for dinner to spend some of my bonus.”

  Dublin, Republic of Ireland

  Esther Bonnard-Rousseau was eating ham and eggs in the bar of the Liffey Landing pub in Rainsford Street in Dublin. That afternoon she had taken the train from Belfast, managing to avoid showing any identification, then come straight to the pub on the bus so no one knew where she was. She’d stayed there several times; it was close to the Guinness storeroom where tourists came to taste the black bitter ale straight from the keg. Her shabby but comfortable room had everything she needed and the owners respected her privacy.

  She had come across the pub two years before, after being stranded in Luton when she realised Ray d’Almeida wasn’t coming for her and had made the same trip by a cheaper route, the train to Liverpool then the ferry to Belfast and another train to Dublin. With only four hundred and fifty pounds to her name she had gone into the pub looking for a cheap room and had ended up helping out as a barmaid. The proprietors, Seamus and Susan McCaffey, were large, friendly and discreet. They paid her in cash, with no questions asked. After working there for six months she had saved enough money to survive for a while and had cultivated a great ambition to make a lot more.

  Now back in Dublin again she felt safe and ready to renew her attack on the world for compensation for the losses she’d incurred, namely Ray d’Almeida and twelve million dollars. She rehearsed in her mind
the messages she would send in a day or two. Meanwhile she needed a good night’s sleep. She asked Susan to pour her a pint of Guinness. That should do the trick.

  DAY EIGHT

  Sunday, July 18, 2010

  SIXTY-SIX

  Malaga, Spain

  Marcel Colombey at the French National Police called back as Espinoza was having his second coffee that morning. Soledad had gone to church with Laura, their daughter, but he wanted to catch up on his jigsaw puzzle. Several new ideas had come to him in the night and he needed to explore them in the quiet of the empty house. He would meet them in the tapas bar for lunch later on.

  “Bonjour, Marcel. I’m impressed to see you working on a Sunday. Quelles nouvelles?” He listened for some minutes, making notes on his pad as always. “Nicole Charpentier. Well done,” he said eventually. “How did you find that out? A Casino Employees Recruitment Register? And then you searched through the employment records at the casinos in the Nice area, I suppose.”

  He listened again. “Even with all the data bases at your disposal, it’s still excellent detective work. We’re getting close to solving this case and it’s you who should get the credit and you’ll deserve it. Can I ask you one last favour?” He explained his request, adding, “I’ll send the photos to you now and if you could possibly get someone to research them today, it would be of great help.”

  Espinoza sent off the photos he’d received from Emma and MacCallister then filled out two more of the boxes of his crossword and ticked off several items on his list. He grunted with satisfaction. There were very few boxes left to fill and the unticked items were diminishing rapidly. He went to make himself another coffee.

  London, England

  “Bonjour M Jolidon, how are you today?” Lord Dudley had been expecting the call from Geneva since the previous day when he had failed to respond to his contact in Marseille. He listened patiently as the Swiss man told him what he already knew.