Deception!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  But Mercy just shrugged.

  ‘What other friends? You’re the first person I’ve really talked to since I got here.’ She stared out over the cliff top and then turned towards Charlie, her face crumpling again. ‘I’ve been so lonely...’

  ‘But surely your father must know lots of people. He’s been here for a long time, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Not really, no. He’s had business connections here for ages, and he had the villa built more than ten years ago, but he’s only lived here for about eighteen months. He certainly doesn’t seem to know many people—or not people my age, anyway. And he doesn’t like me spending time with his friends.’ She stood staring out over the water again. Then she grabbed Charlie’s arm in a tight grip. ‘He seems so nice and friendly at the moment, doesn’t he? But you should see him when he gets angry.’

  Charlie wasn’t sure she believed this. Suzanne had told her she’d never seen Hawkins lose his temper once, the whole time she’d worked for him when he was masquerading as Sir Fredrick Michaels. That was one of the things her sister remembered particularly about her erstwhile boss. His calm under all conditions. But Mercy was nodding her head vigorously. ‘Sometimes, when he gets in a real rage, I’m so frightened of him.’

  ‘Well in that case, why don’t you leave him and go live somewhere else?’

  ‘How can I? I’m his daughter, but I don’t have a Brazilian passport yet. I’m only in this country at his behest.’

  ‘But that’s not right,’ said Charlie. ‘If you’re frightened of him, there must be something we can do.’ At once, Mercy’s smile broke through the tears, as the sun had broken through the mist just a while before.

  ‘Will you help me, Rose? I need to get away from him. Help me come up with a plan. I’m sure we’ll be able to do it together.’ Then she tucked her arm through Charlie’s again. ‘Come on, let’s not spoil this weekend, thinking about unpleasant things. We’ll go back to the hotel and have that swim. We can come back here in the morning and look at the falls again.’

  By the time the women finished their swim and got changed, Hawkins was waiting for them in the bar. He introduced them to his companion, whom he referred to as ‘Senhor Diego, a business associate of mine.’ Then he apologised for not being able to join them for dinner.

  ‘Our business discussions have overrun somewhat, so we’re going to continue them while we eat, in the private dining room. You would only be bored listening to all that shop talk, so I’ve booked a table for you girls on the roof terrace. You can watch the falls as you eat. We’ll have lunch together tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘Tell me, Mercy,’ Charlie asked casually as they walked towards the elevator, ‘what sort of business is your father in?’ But the other woman just shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know, really; he never talks about it.’ Then she shuddered. ‘But some of his so-called associates are a bit scary. They make Senhor Diego look like a pussycat.’

  Charlie had been relieved to find she had a room to herself in the hotel and although there was an interconnecting door to the adjoining suite, where Mercy was sleeping, it was locked. As she got ready for bed after a long, very enjoyable evening, she reflected on the fact that Mercy Gove Hawkins was actually very good company. She felt guilty once more at the inevitable disappointment when she discovered her new friend was not what she claimed to be. But then again, she thought, if she really is afraid of him and does want out, maybe we can fix the situation without too much disappointment after all. Her final thought before she drifted off to sleep was of Annie. She really must remember to ring her in the morning.

  CHAPTER 22 (Johannesburg, October 1961)

  I left Cape Town on the first day of October 1961 and met Stefano more than a day later in Jo’burg’s famous Monarch Hotel. It had been a long, tiring journey, sitting upright throughout the night, but after all those years of watching other people getting on and off trains, I was fascinated. Electrification had only partly been installed and at Beaufort West we jumped onto the platform to stretch our legs while the locomotive was replaced with the more familiar steam engine for the remainder of the journey via Kimberley and Klerksdorp. But I also had lots of time to dream and get excited about the future. I had no idea in what direction my life was going, but I didn’t think I would ever be returning to my days of carrying bags for passengers and teaching spoilt little rich kids to do their sums.

  Stefano greeted me like a long-lost brother, gathering me into his arms in a tight bear hug and then kissing me on both cheeks. He must have noticed my embarrassment at this; I certainly felt hot when he let me go. He burst out laughing and slapped me on the back.

  ‘I’m sorry, my boy,’ he gasped between laughs, ‘I forgot how reserved you Brits are.’ He took a deep breath and shook his finger at me, although his eyes still sparkled with laughter. ‘In my country, men are not afraid to show their emotions.’ He paused and looked at me with his head on one side. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘a lack of emotion, maybe even a good poker face, could be a real asset to us in the future.’ Then he took my bag from me. ‘Come on, let’s get this up to the room and sort you out some food. And tomorrow, we really must get you some better clothes.’

  The next day was a whirlwind of activity and I just kept my mouth shut and went with the flow. We headed for one of the best malls in the city, where Stefano was greeted as a respected customer by all the shopkeepers. I acquired two new suits, several shirts, underclothes and the best pair of leather walking shoes I had ever seen. And in each shop, Stefano airily waved a hand and told them to ‘put it on my bill, old boy.’ And they did. At every single place we visited, we walked out with bags full of stuff, without paying a single penny.

  This was a different Stefano from the casually dressed ageing hippie I’d met in Cape Town all those months ago. He was beautifully dressed, with neatly tied cravat, well-trimmed hair and moustache and brightly polished shoes.

  ‘It’s a question of image, my boy,’ he told me when I asked him about the change. ‘When we met in Cape Town, I was an archaeologist, a fossil hunter; I’d been living rough (or at least that was the story) so I needed to look the part. Life is very different here, and I’m showing the punters a different face.’

  It took me a while to learn exactly what role Stefano was playing, but for the moment, I was happy just to spend time with him and learn about his life—or at least the parts he was willing to show me. But gradually, I realised he, or I guess I should say we, had fingers in many different pies.

  Stefano introduced me to his other ‘associates’ as he called them. There were two men from his home town of Kharkov, which he told me was on the western edge of the Soviet Union. He referred to them as his cousins and although I was never sure whether this was a true family relationship or just a figure of speech, he certainly trusted this pair with his secrets and, on more than one occasion, his life. Then there were three South Africans, two black and one white. These he used as messengers and runners; they were on the margins and he didn’t share much with them, but they were useful when a more local level of knowledge was needed.

  And as for the schemes themselves, or his projects, as he called them, they ranged from extortion and protection rackets to the occasional professional hit. Stefano never got his hands dirty himself, but he controlled every move and called all the shots.

  After we’d been in Jo’burg for nearly a year, he decided we should move.

  ‘All this apartheid nonsense is bad for business,’ he declared one day after one of his runners had narrowly avoided being detained by the local police, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘We need a country where whites and blacks can mix more freely. We’ll give Mozambique a try.’

  We packed up our stuff, sneaking it out of the hotel one bag at a time, and hiding it in the left luggage lockers in the station. When it was all clear, we slipped out ourselves one evening and never returned. I believe Stefano had paid some of the bills earlie
r on, to keep them happy, but we still left them with a huge outstanding account.

  ‘A true gentleman never pays his bills; isn’t that right, Michael?’ he said as we left the hotel for the very last time.

  We took a train to the border and from there transferred into a car arranged for us by one of the local associates. The Soviet cousins had gone on before us into Mozambique, but we were leaving the runners behind.

  ‘There will always be people available, willing to do anything for a few pence,’ said Stefano afterwards. But as we said goodbye to these three men who had helped us no end in our projects, I had a lump in my throat, and even Stefano seemed to be shedding a tear, although he swore it was dust in his eye.

  We settled in Lourenço Marques and as Stefano had surmised, it was much easier to operate and fit in. Society was more integrated and the inconveniences of apartheid hadn’t made it across the border.

  Within a few months, we were well established and even found ourselves a place to live. The idea of squatting rent-free in one of the best hotels had been amusing for a while, but there always seemed to be staff around, changing the bedclothes, cleaning the rooms, delivering room service—and we had never been sure how many of them we could trust. At least one of the waiters at The Monarch had realised what we were up to and actually tried blackmailing Stefano. He disappeared the same evening, and no-one else tried the same trick, but it made us even more wary in Mozambique.

  Of course, we weren’t the only people in the country who were trying to make a living from their wits and other people’s energy. There were several gangs already operating in the capital city and as we guessed, they were not too happy at the idea of new kids on the block taking some of their opportunities away.

  One night we were meeting a new client to arrange a spot of business. At least that’s what we thought. But it turned out to be a trap. We were cornered in a dark alleyway by two thugs, who told us they had a message from the boss.

  ‘Who does he think he is? James Cagney?’ growled Stefano. We stood back to back as the two huge men approached us. I saw a glint and realised the one closest to me had a knife.

  ‘Watch out, Stefano, they have knives,’ I whispered, before ducking down, tackling my opponent around the ankles and bringing him crashing to the ground. They say the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and it was certainly true in this case. He went down like a ninepin, catching his head on a railing as he did, and lay very still. I checked over my shoulder. Stefano was having no trouble dealing with his opponent, and as I watched, the thug dropped his knife and ran for the end of the alleyway, back into the busy street and apparent safety.

  At that point, mine groaned and opened his eyes. I picked up his knife, which had slipped from his grasp, and plunged it into his throat.

  ‘A message back to your boss,’ I said softly. ‘There are some new boys in town and they’re not to be messed with.’

  He gurgled once, as blood dribbled out of his mouth and spurted from the knife wound. I jumped out of the way and watched from a distance until he stopped moving and I was sure he was dead. As his hands slid from his throat to the floor, I spotted something shining in the moonlight. He wore an ornate pinky ring; green and red flashes and gold lettering around the edge. I reached over and slid it off. It fitted my little finger perfectly. I’ve worn that ring ever since to remind me no matter how high up the ladder you climb, there will always be someone behind you, waiting to pull you down.

  Standing, I walked away from him, and from Stefano, and bent over, retching as my stomach emptied itself of its contents. I guess the first time is always a shock, something never forgotten.

  Stefano waited until I’d cleaned myself up, then put an arm around my shoulder and we went home. There he broke out a bottle of his favourite vodka and toasted me as his saviour. I wasn’t at all sure that was true, but it was good to hear he appreciated me. It made the flight from South Africa and everything I’d left behind worth it.

  That night, Stefano sat me down and gave me full details about all the projects he was involved in. I’d known about some of them; he’d even given me responsibility for one of the smaller ones. But now, it was as though he believed I was truly worth trusting; worth bringing completely on board. I don’t know what his cousins thought about it. I never asked—and they never offered any comments, but from that moment on, I was seen as the number two to Stefano Mladov. When he wanted something special sorted out, he sent me along—and people started treating me with respect, just as I’d seen them treating Stefano up to then.

  CHAPTER 23

  Next morning, Charlie was woken by an urgent tapping on her hotel room door.

  ‘Rose, are you awake? Hey, Rose, wake up!’ She recognised Mercy’s voice and glanced at the clock as she rolled out of bed.

  Shit! Five-thirty am! What on earth could be that important at such an ungodly hour? Grabbing a robe and throwing it over her naked body, she groped for the door handle and peeped out.

  ‘Mercy, what’s the matter? Are we on fire?’

  The tall African woman gave a bark of laughter.

  ‘Don’t you remember? We agreed to go and watch the dawn at the falls. Come on, we’ll miss the sunrise if you don’t hurry.’

  It was beginning to come back to Charlie. Their view of the famous falls shrouded in mist yesterday afternoon, then the sun breaking through, revealing the wonderful sight. And Chico’s recommendation that they go back this morning and watch the sunrise. It had seemed such a good idea when they’d talked about it yesterday, but that was before a late dinner and a protracted drinking session in the bar afterwards. How did Mercy manage to look so fresh this morning? Charlie was sure they’d drunk the same number of cocktails.

  ‘Come on, sleepyhead; get moving,’ said Mercy now, jumping up and down like a child on Christmas morning.

  Dousing her head under the cold tap helped clear some of Charlie’s cobwebs before she threw on joggers and a fleece, and within twenty minutes, the two women were striding down the path from the back of the hotel, arriving at the platform above Garganta del Diablo just as the first finger of light pierced the air above the surrounding hills.

  At first, it was like gazing at a smudged monochrome picture, all blues and whites with just the faintest tinge of pink. Slowly, as the sun struggled to break through the horizon of roiling clouds, the sky turned bruised, mauve, purple and orange, contrasting with the stark black of the foliage, and reminding Charlie of sunset in Africa. Then as the sun broke through the cloud, the palette turned to greys and greens and outlines became clearer, sharper. For a brief moment, the water took on the colour of the sun, thundering over the fourteen separate falls of the Devil’s Throat like curtains of gold. But this quickly faded, leaving the white sweeps of foam like so many living glaciers.

  They stood in silence for ten minutes, and Charlie wondered if Mercy’s heart was beating as loudly as hers. To start with there was only a muted sound of falling water, but as the light increased, so did the intensity of the sound and finally, as day broke, the full force of the water impacted on her senses. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so impressive.

  Mercy gave a great sigh and turned towards Charlie, tears sparkling in her eyes.

  ‘I am so glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘If I’d been on my own, I wouldn’t have even got out of bed; I would have missed this—and this may be the only chance I ever get to see it.’

  Hey, that’s a bit final, isn’t it?’ asked Charlie. ‘So you’re really set on doing a runner then?’

  The other woman nodded.

  ‘Yes, definitely. Meeting you, making friends for the first time, has made me realise how my father is stifling me. I need to get away.’ She gripped Charlie’s hands and squeezed them, painfully. ‘You said you’d help me; did you mean it?’

  Great, thought Charlie, I’ve just started to get close to Hawkins and Mercy wants me to help her run away. That’s going to really piss him off. She
knew this would limit the time she had left to sort out how to trap Hawkins into giving himself away.

  ‘Rose,’ Mercy looked nervous, ‘you promised! Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Charlie said, although she could feel her heart sinking. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘My father keeps close tabs on me. When I’m in the house, there are always people there and even if I’m out and about, one of his men is always around.’

  ‘Not when you’re at the sports club, surely?’

  ‘Yes, even there. You probably wouldn’t notice; they’re trained to blend into the background. But I know I’m never really alone. I need some sort of diversion. We’re going up to Rio next week, for Mardi Gras and I was hoping to get the opportunity to slip away during the parade.’ She looked at Charlie with a serious expression on her face, then she smiled and nodded her head. ‘That’s it; come with us to Rio. If I’m with you, he’s likely to be less vigilant.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea...’ but Mercy was now nodding her head vigorously.

  ‘Yes, definitely, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell him we’re going down to watch the parade together, we can lose his minders in the crush and with a bit of luck we’ll have time to get away before they realise we’ve gone.’

  ‘Yes, but where will we be gone to?’ Charlie asked. Mercy shrugged.

  ‘Not sure about that; I need to do some more thinking. Let’s talk again later.’ She dropped Charlie’s hands, which she had been clutching throughout, and gave a laugh. ‘Come on, race you back to the hotel. I’m starving. Let’s see if the restaurant is serving breakfast yet.’