Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  “That gun could cut someone in half at twice the distance. He must want us alive. That’s the only explanation.”

  She changed to low-range gear to negotiate some deep sand.

  “Are you okay?” Bongani asked. “Do you want me to drive now?”

  She shook her head. “No time to change. They’ll be after us.” She managed somehow to bring them out of a rut and they accelerated again.

  “Who are they? Where are they from?” Crys said. “I didn’t recognize his accent.”

  “Portuguese, from Mozambique. Many of them help run smuggling operations here for the Vietnamese gangs.”

  It was starting to make sense. Michael had said he was onto something big, and Anton had pointed out that it was dangerous. If Michael had become mixed up with people like the ones chasing them right now, that could explain his disappearance.

  “Were they the people you told Michael to follow?”

  Bongani shrugged. “It’s possible. But I don’t know any of them.”

  Crys wondered once again how much he really knew.

  “Go left here,” Bongani instructed. They had come to a fork in the track. “It’s a shortcut. I’ll tell you where to go.”

  She swung off in the direction he said.

  “It will be harder for them to follow us now,” said Bongani. “There are game-viewing tracks everywhere here.” He clutched one of the roof supports as they bumped along the dirt track.

  She could see what he meant. The track ahead was covered in tire marks and there were side routes branching off every now and again.

  “I think Ho wanted the money for himself,” she said at last. “Maybe he wanted to buy rhino horn for himself. All he needed was a vehicle.”

  Bongani nodded. He’d come to the same conclusion.

  “Bongani,” Crys said after a long pause, “after what’s just happened, I agree with you: we can’t tell Mabula about the money. I don’t trust him—I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s working with this gang. How else could the Portuguese have known about the crash so quickly? And known to come to the camp? It had to be the police who told him.”

  Bongani nodded.

  “And if we tell the police about the money, there’s no way they’ll let us go. We’ve got to stick to our story.”

  Bongani nodded again, and they drove on in silence for a few minutes.

  “Do you think we should be going to talk to Mabula? He could lock us up if we don’t tell him…”

  “We must see him,” Bongani, said. “If we don’t, where will we hide? He’ll have every road watched, and it will be much worse for us. We must go and talk to him. But not mention the briefcase.”

  A few minutes later, Crys saw that at last they’d reached one of the dirt district roads. She sighed with relief.

  “Giyani is only an hour away,” Bongani said.

  She relaxed just a notch. But the pain in her shoulder was worse now.

  Chapter 18

  Crys kept checking the side mirrors all the way to Giyani even though she was pretty sure they’d lost the thugs. The only way they could follow was with the police vehicle, and she doubted they’d drive into town in that, even if they were in cahoots with Mabula.

  Crys knew she’d been pretty stupid about the money. She should have realized that once Ho disappeared, someone was going to come looking for him. Even so, they’d found out surprisingly quickly. Mabula and his team were up to their necks in this. She was sure of it. And now they were heading to the police station where he was based. But what other option did they have? Once again, she wished she was writing about this corruption in an article, not caught in the middle of the action.

  Crys thought about the amount of money in the briefcase—she guessed it had to be half a million dollars, at least. And it was being carried by a Vietnamese man. With Vietnam the biggest market for rhino horn, Bongani had to be right that the money was connected to poaching. But that amount of money wasn’t to pay off a handful of poachers; they were so poor, a few thousand dollars would be enough. There had to be something much bigger at stake.

  She started thinking about the stocks of rhino horn Johannes had talked about—the ones the national parks and private farmers held. Legal, but locked down. They had enormous value to the rhino-horn trade but were impossible to export. Half a million dollars could buy a lot of that…if the buyer could find a way to get it out of the country.

  She wondered if that was what Michael was after—how the smugglers did that.

  She chewed at her lips, trying to ignore the pain in her shoulder. This could be a huge scoop. But who could she tell? She was in no position now to continue her reporting. She had to concentrate on survival.

  When they reached the outskirts of Giyani, Bongani said, “You need this.” He pulled off his shirt and gave it to her.

  She’d forgotten about her slashed and bloody T-shirt, hanging open over her breasts. She pulled over and tried to take her shirt off, but the blood had set on her back, and it was painful when it tugged at the wound. So, she just pulled Bongani’s shirt over hers.

  She thanked Bongani, touched by his consideration.

  He nodded, accepting her thanks. “What about the money?” he asked.

  She’d forgotten all about the money hidden in the glove compartment. They couldn’t leave it in the open Land Rover, even if it was parked outside a police station. And there was a good chance the police would impound the vehicle anyway.

  “Give it to me. They won’t search us again, and if they do, I can say it was my expenses money, and I grabbed it when I left my tent.” She stuffed the money into her pants pocket, pulling at her scab again in the process.

  The police station wasn’t hard to find. It was on the main road, and Giyani wasn’t that big. She stopped outside, and they went in, causing quite a stir. They made an odd couple: Crys wearing a dirty shirt, obviously too big for her, with smears of blood here and there, and Bongani with no shirt at all, just khaki shorts.

  “We’ve been attacked and assaulted,” Crys told the constable at the reception desk, trying to sound helpless and exhausted. “I need to see a doctor. And…and I think some policemen have been murdered.”

  When she said that, the man looked shocked, but he kept his cool and yelled to someone to get hold of Colonel Mabula, and then called another man to take her to a doctor.

  The clinic was only a few blocks away, and a doctor saw her immediately. He gave her a local anesthetic, then stripped off the T-shirt. Once the pain had dulled, he started digging around in her back. She winced.

  “What happened?” he asked as he worked.

  “Someone shot at us.”

  “Well, you were lucky. The bullet only grazed your shoulder. Otherwise you’d be in ICU.”

  He taped a dressing over the wound.

  “I’ve given you a shot for the pain, and I’ll get you some painkillers and antibiotics to take with you. Take the whole course. We want to be on the safe side. And you’ll need that dressing changed in a couple of days.”

  She thanked him, put on Bongani’s shirt, and left. The policeman who’d brought her there was waiting outside, talking on his cell phone. He seemed less friendly as he drove her back to the station than he had on the way to the clinic. And in the police station, the constable at reception ignored her when she walked back in.

  Somehow in the past half hour, her status had changed. A knot of anxiety formed in her belly. Was Colonel Mabula the reason for the officers’ new attitude? Had he already found out about the money?

  * * *

  She waited and waited, and no one would answer her questions about what was happening. What was more, she didn’t know where Bongani was. The longer she waited, the more worried she became. To make things worse, she was also feeling woozy—from the painkillers and antibiotics, she guessed. She tried to concentrate—she knew she nee
ded to be wide awake when Mabula questioned her.

  Eventually a constable took her to an interrogation room. Mabula was waiting. He waved her to a chair, and the constable stood by the door as if she was likely to make a run for it. Then Mabula made her go through every detail of what had happened since he’d left them the day before, recording it on an ancient tape recorder. She assumed he’d heard it all from Bongani already, and that he was looking for discrepancies. Sometimes he would go back over points in the story before letting her go on. Once he stopped her while he changed the tape. When she came to the part about the elephants, he made a sarcastic comment about how she always seemed to be involved with them, but heard her out. At last he appeared satisfied.

  “Ms. Nguyen,” he said. “I think you are responsible for the death of two of my policemen. This is all because you refused to tell me the truth last time. The men who tried to kill you were probably Portuguese criminals from Mozambique. Some of them work with men like the Vietnamese man you killed—”

  “By accident…” she said hastily.

  Mabula waved her interjection away with his fat hand. “If I know these people, they’re sure to keep trying.”

  He waited for this to sink in. He was right, she knew. Pockface and his partner would go on looking for them for as long as they thought the two of them knew where the money was.

  “Now…” Mabula spread out his hands “…you must tell me the real story.”

  She looked into his round face. Yes, she thought. Then he’ll tell Pockface so he can get his cut. And Bongani and I will still be killed.

  A wave of fear and anxiety spread through her body. She felt the sudden need to lie down and sleep.

  “Look, I’ve told you everything,” she said. “I’m tired, and I’ve been hurt. I need a shower and some sleep. I want to leave now. Where’s Mr. Chikosi?”

  Mabula took his time before replying. “Ms. Nguyen, you’re under investigation for a homicide that you admit you committed, and you’re a material witness to three murders. You aren’t going anywhere.” He shook his head slowly.

  “I’m an American journalist here on an assignment! You know that. If you won’t let me leave, I want a lawyer.”

  “That is possible…when you start cooperating.” He gave her a cold smile.

  “I am cooperating!”

  He looked at her in silence for a moment, then stood up and signaled to the constable. “Take her fingerprints and get some photos. Then put her in a holding cell.”

  “What? No! Why do you need my fingerprints?”

  “We need to know who touched what at the crime scene.”

  “And why are you holding me? Am I under arrest?”

  “No. Not yet. I’m…” He seemed to consider what to say. “I’m keeping you here for your own protection. If your story’s true, your Portuguese friends are out there wanting to kill you. And we can’t have that, can we, Ms. Nguyen?”

  She didn’t respond. She clearly had no choice.

  As he walked out of the room, he turned back to her. “I’m going back out to your camp to see for myself what happened there last night. We’ll talk again when I get back. In the meantime, you can think about how long you want to stay in the jail here.”

  Her heart sank. She felt completely powerless.

  * * *

  A constable took her fingerprints and some mugshots.

  “Valuables, please,” he said.

  “All I’ve got are my car keys. We were attacked in the middle of the night. I didn’t have a chance to pick anything up.”

  He didn’t react, simply putting the keys in a bag and zipping it up. He wrote out a receipt and handed it to her. Had he searched her, she would have been in trouble. She still had the money in her pocket.

  He took her to a small holding cell, maybe ten feet by ten feet. It was basic. There was a cracked washbasin and a toilet with no seat. There was a small window with grimy glass, secured with burglar bars, and under it was a metal cot with tattered bedding that looked as though it had never been washed. And a wooden chair with a broken back. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling, out of reach. The room was hot, and it stank.

  The constable left, locking the door behind him. She opened the window a bit, which let a little air come in and some stuffiness out. Then she used the toilet and washed as well as she could. Next, she pulled the blanket onto the floor and beat out the mattress, grateful that at least nothing alive came out. She noticed that a spring had come through the mattress and torn it—a good place to hide the money before she was searched, she thought. The way things were going, she would need the money later. She kept her back to the door to hide what she was doing and stuffed the money into the mattress. She put the blanket on top and lay down to rest.

  Crys’s mind was churning. What was she going to do? Perhaps the best was just to wait it out and say nothing. Hopefully the Malans were already looking for them, and after a few days, Mabula would have to let them go.

  She wondered if he could charge her with anything. The image of the dead Ho slumped in the Land Rover wouldn’t leave her mind’s eye.

  She rolled over, trying to find a less uncomfortable spot on the mattress.

  She was also worried about Bongani. Maybe she was protected for the moment as an American journalist, but what about him? If they were treating her like this, they may be beating him up.

  She realized she was kidding herself. If Mabula was crooked, then he wouldn’t play by the rules. Maybe he was already cutting a deal with Pockface to hand her over. The wound on her chest started to sting, reminding her of what Pockface would do.

  As much as she tried, she couldn’t see a way out of her predicament.

  Once again, she wished they’d never gone looking for Ho; wished they’d never found the money. But there was no point in looking backwards. She needed a plan. But, at the moment, she had nothing.

  She rolled over again.

  She must have eventually fallen into an exhausted asleep because the next thing she heard was the door opening. A stocky, overweight policeman came in with a tray of food.

  “Dinner,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  He looked at her, apparently surprised by the question. “The white stuff, we call pap. It’s a dried porridge. The rest is a meat sauce.”

  She pulled the plate toward her and began to eat. Despite her fear and anxiety, her body was desperate for sustenance. The last hours had drained it completely.

  “Where do you come from?”

  She looked up and realized the guard was still there. “America,” she said, swallowing. The food was quite tasty, even though the texture was a little strange. “Are you a guard?” she asked, thinking that he might give her some information.

  “I’m the night guard here.”

  “Is Colonel Mabula still here?”

  He shook his head. “At night, there’s only me. I handle reception, too, from midnight.”

  She tried a smile, but her face ached. She must have bruised it. She looked at the guard’s name badge: Petrus Ngane. “Is my friend Bongani Chikosi here too, Constable Ngane?”

  “Yes, he’s in the other wing.”

  “Can I get a message to him?”

  Petrus shook his head. “It’s not allowed. Prisoners can’t talk to each other.”

  “But I’m not a prisoner!”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, can I make a phone call? My friends will be worried.”

  He shook his head again. “Not unless the colonel says so. And he’s not here…”

  “But I haven’t done anything! I was shot—you can see my shoulder’s bandaged—and Colonel Mabula is holding me for my own safety.” She hoped that was true.

  For a few seconds Petrus was silent. Then he said, “Okay, maybe I can help…if…if you have money.” Then, without waiting for a rep
ly, he picked up the tray and carried it out, locking the door behind him.

  She stared at the back of the door.

  It was pretty clear how things worked here.

  * * *

  She’d been so stressed over the past few days that she resigned herself to her situation and managed to sleep—although it was plagued by dreams of knives, guns, and pockmarked faces. She was woken at dawn by the light forcing its way through the grimy window.

  She washed as best she could, then took a hundred-dollar bill from her stash in the mattress, folded it into her pocket and waited for Petrus.

  When he arrived, he had a bowl of the same dry porridge she’d had the day before. There was no milk or sugar or even salt to go with it, but he did put down a mug of black tea.

  “You must be happy to be going home now,” Crys said. “I wish I was doing that too.”

  “I’m sure they’ll let you go soon,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

  She shook her head. “I’m not so sure.”

  She pulled the hundred-dollar bill from her pocket and held it out. Petrus’s eyes widened, and he put his hand out automatically.

  “When you come in tonight, could you tell Mr. Chikosi I’m okay?” she said. “He’ll be glad to know. And can you buy me some food? Some candy or cookies or something?”

  He nodded and took the money.

  “Thank you,” she said attempting a smile. “You’re the only one around here who’s helpful. The others…” She shrugged her shoulders, and then winced at the pain.

  Petrus said he’d see her later and hurried out, locking the door.

  She was slightly encouraged. At least he had accepted the hundred dollars.

  Almost as soon as Petrus had left, a constable came in and told her Mabula wanted to see her.

  This time, instead of going to the interrogation room, she went back past reception and into the colonel’s office. It was a mess, the desk cluttered and stacks of files on the floor. Mabula told her to sit, then dismissed the constable.

  “My men were killed in cold blood,” he began. “Constable Mombo was mown down with an AK-47 at the plane crash, and Constable Ngweni was blasted in the back at close range with a shotgun at the camp.”