Malaga, Spain
It was nine-thirty in the morning in Spain and five-thirty pm in Sydney, Australia. Espinoza was on the telephone to an old police colleague, an Australian liaison officer for Interpol. “This is informal, Mac,” he said. “Just some enquiries for a friend. I’m not involved in police business any more, although I do miss our get-togethers around the world.”
“Those were the days, Pedro, not anymore. Austerity is the watchword now. Can’t take a shit without reporting how much toilet paper you use. Give me the full name and any details you’ve got and I’ll get back to you like a berserk boomerang.”
After giving as complete a description as he dared, Espinoza then called his previous opposite number at the National Police in Paris with a similar question. “Aucun problème, Pedro.” The Spaniard’s French was as good as his English, the response was the same. The wheels were in motion.
Although he was an old fashioned policeman, Espinoza had a grudging respect for certain modern technologies. He opened up Google on his laptop and typed in a name. After trawling through several news items, he exclaimed, “Bueno!” He printed out the page and placed it with his notes.
Next, he checked two more sites and printed out several more pages with a sense of satisfaction. He was starting to get a feel for the people and the plan, putting himself into the criminal’s minds. He would do some more research before going over to York House.
Diepkloof, Gauteng, South Africa
“Zimbabwe! You must be joking.” Coetzee had just heard the Voice’s latest instructions. He’d expected that they’d move Leo to another nearby town in SA. Now he was told they’d have to drive over five hundred kilometres and cross an inhospitable frontier into a country controlled through corruption, chaos and fear. Depending on the state of the roads and traffic conditions it would take him the best part of a day. He looked at Nwosu. The police sergeant seemed unperturbed and said nothing, a slightly smug look on his face. Almost as if he knew already, he thought to himself.
“You will be paid accordingly, of course,” the Voice continued. “We have decided to agree to your request for improved remuneration. What would you say to a fifty per cent increase, retrospectively, of course?”
“In the bank before I go?”
The Voice laughed quietly, the laugh distorted by the acoustic effect. “Since you must leave today, I’m afraid that’s impossible. But we have not yet failed to keep our word, it will be there by the time you reach Beitbridge. That’s where you will hand over the boy.” He gave instructions for the handover, a small hotel in the border town.
Coetzee looked at Nwosu again. He shrugged, as if to say, “why not?”
The two men hadn’t admitted that they’d failed to obtain any more information on Leo’s father, but for some reason the Voice hadn’t mentioned it. Coetzee was becoming more and more suspicious, and nervous. He weighed up his options. He was in this business up to his neck and there were too many witnesses who could put him away. The fees he’d already received and the additional money on offer was enough to get him to a civilised place, where he could put this behind him and start anew with what was left of the modest nest egg he’d received from the army.
Images of Emma and Leo flashed through his mind. If I deliver the kid in good health to Beitbridge there’s nothing more I can do, he reasoned. Whatever deal was on the table it would be bartered, she’d have her son back and he’d be on his way to a new life. He couldn’t be expected to do more; he was just a cog in the machine. But he’s my responsibility. He realised he was trying to justify his decision. I’ll go along with it to get paid and I’ll make sure nothing happens to him while he’s in my hands.
He finally decided. “If you send the funds now by Internet and I get the confirmation, I’ll do it. But I’m going with the Doc and the boy. I don’t need any more company.” His paranoia about Nwosu was increasing by the minute. The man was an untrustworthy, homicidal maniac and he didn’t want to be trapped in the middle of nowhere with him at any cost.
“That’s fine with me.” Nwosu said. “I’m not desperate to drive to Zimbabwe. I’ll clean up here.”
All Coetzee heard was ‘clean up’. He had no doubt that Nwosu meant Lambert, maybe Blethin, the doctor. Where does the clean-up stop? He thought. We’re all expendable. Once we get to Zimbabwe, the trail in South Africa will be cold. They can get rid of us and there’s nobody left to tell the tale. If I stay in Joburg I’m dead meat, but if I take the job, I have a chance of making it into the Kruger and getting away from these bastards. A voice inside him kept whispering, What about the boy?
“Unfortunately,” the Voice replied, in an implacable tone, “the agreement with the border control requires Sergeant Nwosu’s presence. We couldn’t arrange it any other way.”
“Can’t I send on instructions from here?” Nwosu sounded like he really didn’t want to go. “I can produce whatever official papers are required, anything that’s needed.”
Why is he pleading to stay? Coetzee couldn’t work out what was going on. Whatever it was, he decided, he would take precautions to watch his back.
“Sergeant Nwosu,” the Voice replied. “You are forgetting that you told me the boy has no passport with him. Only a police officer has the power to accompany him through the border control. And in respect of the payment, Mr Coetzee, the increase is only payable upon completion of the task. You must understand our position on this. Neither of us can afford to take any risks. We are obliged to trust each other in these circumstances.”
The only guarantee of trust is for me to keep control of the boy. If I refuse to go, it probably spells curtains for both of us. “I’ll take Leo to a hotel in Beitbridge and he’ll stay in my custody until I see the money in my account,” he said. His suspicions were even more aroused when Nwosu readily agreed to his conditions. This all sounds very scripted, he thought. But what’s the punch line? It’s not going to be me, nor the kid.
“There’s one more thing,” the Voice continued. “You must take a photograph of the boy and transmit it to the email address you have for us. You should do this before you leave for Beitbridge. That’s all for now.” The phone went dead.
“Why in Hell do they want to ship Leo to Zimbabwe?” Coetzee tried to find out what Nwosu was holding back from him. “It’s a shithole infested by corrupt, murdering vermin. Have you ever been?”
Nwosu ignored the question. “It has to be to do with money. They want the kid somewhere he can’t possibly be taken from them until they get paid a ransom. He must be worth a fucking fortune.” Nwosu was cursing himself that he hadn’t insisted on even more money, the stakes were clearly very high.
“Listen, Nwosu. I signed up to hold the boy until a ransom was paid then to deliver him safe and sound. No one said anything about handing him over to a bunch of murderous thugs in a lawless country. What happens to him there?”
“Get real, Coetzee. You think they ship young kids to Zimbabwe to work as waiters? I’m telling you he’s a valuable commodity and he’ll be handed over for a king’s ransom and the deal will be done and dusted. And it’s a bit fucking late to be changing your mind. We’re stuck in the middle of this transaction and there’s no way out except forward. We deliver the kid, get paid and live to enjoy it. If we don’t, then neither of those things happens. You choose.”
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 g
reat 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, an
d 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.
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