Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 01 (9 page)

Chapter 18

Brenda woke slowly and stretched her body full-length, arms extended over her head, toes to finger tips. On any other morning she would luxuriate in that stretch, muscles tight, body humming. But then she remembered last night. She sat bolt upright and looked to her left. No Bobby, empty bed on his side. Where? The room was in shambles, her clothes were scattered across the floor where she’d dropped them when she’d tried to sneak in last night—no, in the morning. Her nightie dangled over the bed post, its straps in tatters. And she was sore. She never got sore down there, hadn’t since she was a kid. That bastard Bobby. The assault, that’s how she thought of it, and she knew all about assaults—oh yeah. The assault had been rough and lasted for an hour or more. She’d endured it because she had to, because she’d been raised to, because she didn’t have any other choices, not yet. But that would change, and soon. She pounded her fists on the mattress and cursed men in general and Robert Scott Griswold in particular. That’s how men worked out their frustrations, beat up on women.

She took a breath and collected her wits. The residue of stale drinks and sex assailed her. She needed a plan. As soon as she worked the deal with Travis and they’d cashed in, she’d file for divorce and clean Bobby out. She’d see to it he got nothing. She’d take her share and his, too. And alimony…oh yeah, he would pay big time for what he did to her. She shook her head. Her blond hair whipped her face. She needed a shower. She slipped out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom and stood under the hot water until she finally felt clean. She stepped out and toweled off and slipped on her robe.

The worst part of what had to go down in the next couple of weeks? She’d have to be nice to Bobby, the creep, at least until the deal was done. He wasn’t going to be asked to join Mensa anytime soon, the dumb ox, but he could be sneaky, and last night he showed he could be rough, too. He’d have to be kept calm and flexible. That’s the word, like plastic man or something. Bend but don’t break. Hell, she’d been doing that, like, all her life.

Bobby hinted that something new had been added to the mix, something to do with Leo. If Leo was in the game, look out. She’d need to find out what that was all about. She could do it. She knew how. She’d get him to feeling guilty about last night, remind him he owed her from before when he’d had the accident, and then she’d seduce him and when he was turned to mush…oh yeah, she’d find out.

She made a mental list: 1) Call Travis and tell him to cool it for a while. Maybe they could get some time together up in Kasane. Bobby would probably get drunk up there. He always had at least one fall-down most weeks. 2) Call Frankie at the club and see if he would wire the money to her so she could pay off Travis right away. That would lock it up pretty good. It would cost, but what the hell. And 3) She needed a massage and a spa treatment.

She called the front desk to set up that the spa date first.

***

Sanderson met with the village men at the
kgotla
as the sun cleared the trees in the east. Pako had authorized the use of the old Land Rover. He didn’t waste her time with admonitions about the care and safety of the vehicle, as he would have done in the past. Apparently, his mind focused on his new assignment, probably. She pulled up at the edge of the low wall that defined the
kgotla
and walked toward the group of men. They were carrying weapons of some sort. One had an old Enfield rifle, contraband, and she should have to report it, but she wouldn’t, not just yet, anyway. The rest had spears or heavy clubs.

“I do not think that you will need those weapons today,” she said. The men shuffled their feet.

Rra Kaleke, as the eldest and, therefore, presumed wisest and their leader, stepped forward. “You cannot be so sure, Mma. That lion, if that is what we are seeking, may be close by. If he was successful once in that area, he may think he will be again. And if it is the leopard, well, he will be there, too.”

Sanderson realized there was no point in arguing with them. Carrying a weapon made a statement about manhood. She just hoped the rifle stayed out of sight.

She climbed back into the Land Rover, the men climbed into the bed of the Toyota pick-up and, with her in the lead, they bounced out of the village common area and onto the road to Kazungula. It was a fifteen-minute drive. Sanderson had not thought through how she would approach the hunt. There would have to be one. Mr. Pako would not let it rest until there was. The big hotel lodges in Kasane insisted on it. A predatory big cat that had tasted human flesh posed a threat to their guests; even though it was unlikely that a lion, even a maneater, would venture that close to the town, an attack had occurred, a man had been killed, and something must be done. Pako said there were procedures to follow. She had never heard of them, but then there had not been a lion incident in the area in her memory, so that could be the reason.

She slowed when the two vehicles reached the spot in the road where Lovermore Ndlovu had dashed into the bush. She signaled the truck to follow her, and she turned in and followed the tracks she’d made the previous week through the grass to the spot where the body had lain. The truck pulled up behind her and the men piled out.

Rra Kaleke led them to the spot that Sanderson pointed out.

“This is a very old track.” He squatted and studied the ground. “See, this spoor is almost covered with all of the other animals who have come to share in this meal. Not so many as in the park, no, but some. I don’t see any
dipheri.
” The men peered over his shoulder and agreed. There were no hyena tracks.

“They will not come so close to the people, I think.” He studied the tracks some more. “It is a young lion,” The others nodded again.

The men walked slowly away from the spot searching for more tracks. “Here,” one called. “Here is where he slept his meal away.” The men crowded around the place where the tough grass had been flattened.

Rra Kaleke turned to Sanderson. “I am thinking this bad lion returned to Zimbabwe, Missus. See these paw prints? They are headed east toward the road and the border is just over there.” He waved in the general direction of the border hut where the flags of Botswana and Zimbabwe fluttered above the crossing site. “Even if we wanted to, we cannot follow him over there. The Zimbabwe people will have to shoot your lion.”

Sanderson was crestfallen. Pako would not accept that, she was sure. He wanted her to fail and he wanted that failure to be public. He would not accept this reasonable explanation.

Kaleke seemed to read her thoughts. “If you want Mma, we can go find another lion and kill him for you. That should make the men at the tourist hotels and your Mr. Pako happy. This lion will not be coming this way again soon, you know. There are
dipitse ya naga
over there. If this
tau
keeps clear of the old fellah who chased him away, he will not come back to this place.”

An abundance of zebras, as Kaleke said, was problematic. But he had it right. The lion would not try to cross the busy highway into Kasane again. He would stay across the border. She could not accept their offer to kill a random lion just to please or confound her boss. She would have to figure out a different story to placate Pako until he left for his new post. What his replacement would want was another thing entirely.

“No, we cannot kill another lion, Rra but, if you will do another thing for me, I will be very grateful. Will you hunt this lion for a few days as if the spoor led in the opposite direction?” The men looked at her quizzically. “It is important that the lodge owners feel something is being done and the situation is under control.”

“We would like to help you, Mma Michael, but to do that is a waste of our time,” Naledi said.

“But you will be hunting legally. Who knows what you might stumble on while you look for the
tau
?”

“Ah, you think we may have to remove some beasts from this area that could be considered a problem? You think by reducing the possible food supply, this bad lion will have to show himself, if, of course he is still here?”

“You never know, with lions,” she said.

The men smiled. They had not hunted in many years. Fresh meat would be a blessing.

“We will help you out in this undertaking for a week, Missus,” Kaleke said. “That should keep that Pako satisfied.” The others nodded in agreement.

Chapter 19

“He’s not here.” Brenda sounded angry. Had the boy actually done something? No, not likely. She added that she didn’t know where he was and didn’t care, either. Of course not.

Leo hung up, put on his jacket, and headed out the door. He patted his jacket pocket where he’d secured Farrah’s documents, neatly folded into thirds. Bobby would be in the restaurant or the bar, more than likely. He’d find him soon enough. But first he had to go to Barclay’s Bank and retrieve the check, spelled
cheque
, as the message from the desk had it, from the wire transfer he’d arranged with Chicago’s First National. Leo had anticipated the need for a bank to work with in Botswana, especially with the project he had contracted Greshenko to spearhead for him, so he’d opened an account at the large international bank earlier. Transferring the funds had been simple enough.

Farrah had convinced him to change his mind about the dates on the documents and had him leave them blank. Probably just as well. The more he thought on the maneuver he and the boy were about to make, the more he wondered if he shouldn’t slow down, take a step back, and rethink the whole thing. He didn’t like the boy, and he was angry at Travis for playing Brutus, but that didn’t mean he had to destroy them, not yet, anyway. He found his car and driver waiting for him at the hotel’s entrance. He slid into the back seat with a grunt and gave the driver his destination. The Volvo pulled away and headed downtown. As often as he’d visited London and other drive-on-the-left countries, he still had a hard time getting used to it. He settled back in the seat, flinching every time the car turned into what his instincts told him was the wrong lane. He retrieved a cigar from his inside pocket, studied it and put it back. It held no appeal. He was tired. He didn’t sleep well the night before, or anytime for that matter, and he felt old. His workload was killing him. That’s what the quack said. Hell, he probably had it right.

If only…

How many men whose hearts can no longer be relied on and who, therefore, face a possible early and unpredictable end had uttered those words over the years? If only.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was not the Blackberry that he required all his employees to use, but one he’d purchased locally and which he used only for communicating with Greshenko.

“It’s about time I heard from you. What have you got for me?”

“Several things you need to think about before we make any more moves.”

“Go ahead, and please don’t tell me we have trouble already. I just wanted you to make some contacts, set up appointments with the people who can make this project happen.”

“No trouble in that department, at least not yet, Mr. Painter. That’s not it.”

“What then?”

“First, I spotted what I think must be a policeman on my tail. He was with me from the time we arrived and ever since. He knows where I’ve been and to whom I’ve spoken. Is that a problem for you? It is for me. Police, any police, make me nervous.”

“I don’t know. Should it be?”

“We need to find out what he’s after us for, I think. He was in Kasane waiting for me after I drove up here.”

“He followed you?”

“I don’t think he followed. He was here when I arrived. He must have flown up.”

“He knew where you were headed?”

“Apparently. He must have talked to some of the people I met in the city, and they must have told him enough to figure out what my next step would be. But that doesn’t explain why he’s on my tail in the first place.”

“I can’t help you there. Use your contacts and find out. I want this thing to go through without a hitch. What else?”

“I’m having trouble meeting with Botlhokwa
.
He has layers of people around him, and getting through to him is difficult.”

“I thought you knew him. What’s different now?”

“That was a long time ago and before he slipped to the dark side, you could say.”

“Do what you have to do, but be careful that if you spend money, you get value received.”

Leo closed the phone and stared at the scenery as it flashed by. He was in an emerging country, that much was certain. The contrasts amazed him. He admired a shiny new glass and steel multistory building and noted the herd of goats grazing near its entryway. An enormous tractor trailer, larger than anything he’d seen in the States, a twenty-six wheeler, if he’d counted the axles correctly, blew by a crudely assembled wagon drawn by a troika of donkeys. Slick Japanese cars vied with battered pickups for parking spaces. And the road was lined with shacks, sheds, and rickety tin constructions in which entrepreneurs plied their trade—roast chicken for sale, haircutting, even a car wash that consisted of a man and a bucket of soapy water. Amazing. And all this juxtaposed against new high-rises and modern stores and shops. Every nation should have that sense of willingness to work at whatever was available. His country, he thought sourly, had too many people who were addicted to entitlements. They should see these people. He could work with them. He could build something with them.

***

Superintendent Mwambe tried hard not to show his annoyance. He did not like this member of the Gaborone establishment poking around in his jurisdiction. This man from the Directorate of Intelligence and Security, this Kgabo Modise, asked too many questions about his situation. What did he want? Mwambe had been at this post for many years. Longer than Modise had been a policeman or with the CID, he suspected. Too often these officials from the capital came to Kasane to inquire about things—things he could handle without their help. Now this man sat across his desk with an open notebook in his lap.

“What do you know about the Rra Botlhokwa?” Modise asked.

“He is a resident of this city in the winter. I believe he summers on a wine estate near Cape Town, or possibly it’s a condo in Mauritius. We have reason to believe he is connected with some illegalities, but so far we have nothing to report. I have a man watching him.” Superintendent Mwambe sat back and graced the man from Gabz with a superior smile. He knew his job.

“He is more than that.” Modise flipped though his note book. “I assume you know he started out as a bright light in the country. Went into business instead of government. He has played fast and loose on the fringes of the diamond trade, perhaps dabbling in the darker markets. He has interests in hotels and casinos and some across-the-border enterprises that we are looking into. The Directorate on Corruption and Economic Crime has been closing the noose on him for some time. He was the first man in the country, black or white, to own a Rolls Royce. Of course you know all of this.”

Mwambe didn’t, but he was not about to admit it to the man from Gabz.

“The man you have watching him, he is good?”

“He is being trained by me personally. Yes, he is good.”

“I found him asleep in his car this afternoon. He missed an important visitor to the chalet.”

Mwambe straightened up. “What visitor?” There would be no reason to dispute the inspector’s finding. If he said Derek was asleep at his post, it was so. He’d been given that assignment precisely because he was rubbish at everything else.

“We are interested in this man.” He slid the photograph of Yuri Greshenko across the desk. Mwambe squinted at the picture. He did not recognize him.

“Reason?”

“He worked for the Soviets, which is what they were then, as a commercial attaché at the Russian embassy. That was when their presence in this country was highly problematical.”

“Problem…what?”

“The Soviets provided a safe haven for the ANC/SA Communist Party. Gaborone was their listening post for the whole area, and Greshenko’s countrymen provided a springboard for the Eastern Bloc which supported MK Freedom Fighters to infiltrate into South Africa. It was not a good time in our history.”

Mwambe nodded. He remembered vaguely the bombings and Botswana Defense Force having to deal with insurgents from across all of its borders, particularly south and west. He’d been a young man then, but he remembered.

Modise went on, “So, now he returns as a member of an American party that is consulting the ministry about minerals. We do not think he has any interest in minerals.”

“What then?”

“That is what we desire to find out. Interpol has identified him as a possible agent of the Russian criminal consortium. He had dealings with Botlhokwa in years past. Now he seeks him out again. If this business is to combine his American connections with the corrupt ones here, then we must take steps to see to it he leaves this country in pretty short order. If, on the other hand, his presence in an American delegation is something else, we need to know what that is, as well.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Put your nephew, Derek, on traffic duty or some task he cannot turn into
monontsha.
”

Mwambe flushed and started to reply, then thought better of it. This man was from Gabz, after all. Mwambe had no interest in being reassigned to a lesser station like his friend Pako, and Derek’s lack of competence could not be made into something it was not.

“I will put a detail on the house immediately.” Kgabo Modise seemed satisfied. But was he?

“
No mathata,”
he added with more confidence than he felt.