Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 02 Page 16

  “The money. You will please give it back to us, now.”

  Noga sighed. “I cannot do that. Sorry.” He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the rifle’s report and bullet’s impact. Nothing happened. He risked a look at the men. They stood frowning. One scratched his chin through his scraggly beard.

  “”What do you mean you can’t repay us our money, boy. You will. One way or another, you will. By Gott, even you must be worth something to somebody. We could sell you dead or alive back to your Botlhokwa.”

  Noga’s mind raced. There had to be a way out of this. The English and the coltan might work.

  “I have something better for you.”

  “Better? How better? You for sure have something we can take back to our boss?”

  “I just delivered a very valuable cargo to some Englishmen. If you take me to your boss, I will tell him what it is, where it is, and how to find it.”

  “You will tell us now and we will decide if you live long enough to talk to anybody.”

  Noga knew he had them. Boers could be so thick at times. “If you kill me, you get no money, no cargo no…well, you will be where you were before you caught up with me only even less likely to find a pay-off.”

  “You think that is important to us?”

  “I think so, yes. Listen, there are two things you should be thinking about. First, whether I am telling you the truth or not. I might really have something to sell. If I do, and if your bosses are who I think they are and they find out you killed me without checking, you’ll be next on the firing line. Yes?”

  The two exchanged looks. Noga knew he’d touched a sore spot.

  “Maybe. What is the second reason?”

  “You come from the south somewhere. South Africa probably, and you don’t know any better, I guess but—”

  “What do you mean, but?”

  “But…you have taken us deep into the bush. This is lion country and they are always hungry. A pride of them could come crashing through these bushes any time now if they’ve caught our scent. If so, you will be some big cat’s lunch. We need to get out of here and quick.”

  As if on cue, they heard rustling in the bush nearby. All three dove for the Toyota, scrambled in, and slammed the doors.

  “Just hurry up, you bastard.” The driver slapped the SUV into gear and they wheeled away, crashing through brush, small trees, and nearly took out their transmission as they lurched across a dry streambed. The gazelles which had created the panic in the first place, bolted in the opposite direction.

  Noga had bought himself some time.

  ***

  Modise left Leo Painter and headed back to police headquarters. He needed to give Mwambe a heads-up about the trouble brewing at the American’s casino. He needn’t tell it all just yet; just enough to prevent an investigation if someone were to report suspicious activity at the casino. In fact, he hoped they would. It would be a good sign about the security system he hoped he’d established.

  He couldn’t be sure how Mwambe would react to a caution couched as “in the best interest of government security.” The Americans were always finding themselves in hot water when they claimed “national security” as their reason to stifle information.

  As he approached the parking area, he was nearly sideswiped by a convoy of official vehicles headed out the gate. He flagged one down by flashing his police ID.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Is that you, Inspector Modise? Oh, well, there has been a shooting on the road south to Nata. One of our officers has been shot. Two Boers—”

  Modise did not need to hear the rest. He braked, reversed, and wheeled around to follow the stream of cars and vans heading back out of the village. A shooting? Boers? This was something for sure. The last time there’d been a shooting involving a Boer had been the infamous Mariotta Bosche, who killed her lover’s wife a few years ago. Big scandal. She’d been hung, much to the consternation of the international press. Could these be the same two implicated in the park shooting? That small killing in the park was growing into something more than a misfired hijacking.

  Ten minutes later he pulled up behind a police car and walked toward the scene. Mwambe appeared to be in charge and busy. Modise hung back and watched. He would give the superintendent some space. As much as he disliked this overstuffed policeman, Modise conceded he knew how to do his job when he chose. Today, it seemed, he did so choose. A few meters away, Modise saw the body on the ground—the constable. Evidence techs were at that moment easing a second body from a pickup truck farther along the track.

  “Ah, Modise, you have heard?”

  “Superintendent Mwambe, I have. Your man is killed by Boers? Our Boers?”

  “Possibly, possibly. Constable Kgobela is dead and so he cannot tell us who pulled the trigger on him, but we believe it is those two. He called in that he had taken up pursuit of two men matching the description of the men we sought. The vehicle matched that the American gave us but not the number plate, of course.”

  “Of course. I am sorry about your officer.”

  “He died doing his duty. He was Rra Kgobela’s son, the man that ran the fruit market, and Mma Carl, his mother. They also lost a daughter, his sister, last year. So much sadness for them, but, if you must die young it is the better way, is it not?”

  Modise nodded. It was. “What are the chances for a ballistics match?”

  “Too soon to tell, but the man in the bakkie died in the vehicle. That means there could be a projectile in there somewhere.”

  “Good. When we catch up with these two men we will want it.”

  “You believe we will catch them then?”

  “Oh yes. They have returned to the area. They are either very stupid, very sure of themselves, or truly believe we have no case against them. Oh yes, we will have them.”

  Mwambe smiled and nodded. Poor Takeda was forgotten for the moment.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Sanderson and Charles Tlalelo arrived at her house at the same time. She, flustered, introduced Charles to Michael even though he had visited many times previously.

  “Tell Mpitle about Charles,” she said.

  Michael raised his hand in greeting. Charles seemed startled at the young man’s appearance, It had been some months since he’d last seen him and the effects of HIV/AIDs changed him dramatically.

  “Dumela, Michael, le kae?”

  Michael smiled. His voice was so weak; Charles could not make out what he said. So much sorrow for Sanderson, Charles thought. If this assignation with Modise did nothing more than put some cheer in her life, it would be worth it.

  Sanderson disappeared into her bedroom. He heard her crashing about and muttering about having nothing to wear. Women always said that, didn’t they? Mpitle, the teenager who turned many heads in the village, banged in the door and jumped at the sight of him. She may not have remembered meeting him earlier.

  “I am Charles Tlalelo,” he said. “You have forgotten me, I think.”

  Mpitle looked at him uncertainly.

  “Mpitle, is that you?” Sanderson called. “This is Charles from the station. Say hello to him. He will be staying here while I am away this night.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “She has a date with Inspector Modise, from Gaborone” Charles said and winked.

  “You are going out with a man, Momma?”

  “No, a hippo. Of course, a man. Is that so strange? You think I should remain an old widow woman forever?”

  “No, of course not.” Mpitle did not sound convinced. “But why Rra Tlalelo is being here? Michael and I can take care of ourselves. We always do.”

  Sanderson stepped from the back room wrapped in a robe. She pursed her lips and nodded toward the bed where Michael lay, his forehead beaded with sweat. She shook her head.

  “There had been a development in that murder in the park you have heard me speak about. A man, a very large man, has threatened to hurt you if I do not do certain things.
I do not think he will, but I cannot take the chance, so Charles will spend the evening here with you two. He will not disturb you so you can concentrate on doing your homework.”

  Mpitle rolled her eyes. “This is so silly. I am a grown woman and—”

  “Charles has the rifle with him just in case. You see it is serious, Mpitle, so do not argue with me on this. Now, I need you to help me find an appropriate dress.”

  “A dress? Momma, when was the last time you wore a dress? You live in that uniform of yours. I do not think I will recognize you in a dress. The neighbors will call the police alerting them to a stranger in the neighborhood.”

  “I do not need to be hearing your sass, lady. Now help me with this decision or I will take you father’s belt to your backside.” Mpitle giggled at the idea. “Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Yes, Momma, and I will be the next president of this country.”

  “You could be if you wanted. But that would require a much more determined effort in schooling and that begins with your homework. Now, come in here and let us see what we can make of these many garments. Lord have mercy, I don’t think any of them are less that ten years old.”

  Charles settled in the good chair and opened his paper. He had his rifle across his knees but hoped he’d not be called on to use it. He hated firearms.

  ***

  Modise glanced at his watch. He had time to check a few more things and return to his room at the Marina Lodge to freshen up before collecting Sanderson for their dinner engagement. He’d made reservations at the restaurant earlier to assure it could seat them. He waved goodbye to Mwambe and returned to the privacy of his car. He made three calls to Gaborone and then sat contemplating the setting sun and the growing threat to his country posed by international crime syndicates.

  He slid the red-jacketed file he’d brought from Gaborone out of the leather case he kept with him always and added to it the notes he’d just jotted down. Things will be difficult, the DG had said. Difficult? If the Lenka organization decided to move north to the Chobe, maybe impossible unless an army were assigned to him. And then what to do with Greshenko. Clearly he had become a liability. If he were made a “double,” as Painter suggested, his future life expectancy would drop to under five years, and even that was a stretch. He flipped open the file to the first page and read, wondering how much of this he should share with Painter and the other hoteliers on the river.

  The South African authorities had confirmed Olegushka Zhoravitch Lenka’s presence in Cape Town. So it was certain. The major Russian crime boss had opened up shop and was looking northward. Modise flipped through the pages.

  Lenka has moved between various locales, Sharjah, Antwerp, and Rio de Janeiro. Like his contemporaries, including the presently incarcerated and disgraced Victor Bout, he is a native of the old and the new Russia, the USSR as it had been, and the state that now operated in its place. Born in Novograd, educated in St. Petersburg, this former KGB operator emerged as a senior Bratva figure in the late nineties. His group now operated through multiple fronts including Nexus Aviation which is currently one of the larger commercial air carriers linking Africa, Latin America, Middle East, and Asia. And it has a significant air service infrastructure at O. R.Tambo airport in Johannesburg. Lenka’s network linked these services operating out of East Africa—specifically to Uganda and Rwanda, where they apparently are involved in a variety of enterprises in and out of the Democratic Republic of Congo: Specifically guns, spares, drugs, as well as legitimate and quasi-legitimate cargoes such as coltan.

  How do you curb a criminal organization that has its own air force?

  In addition to employing ex-Soviets as muscle, his organization employs locals as “boots on the ground” in its markets. In Southern Africa this meant the presence of ex-liberation era combatants both white and black.

  That would explain the Boers. Like the ex-Soviet cold warriors, there were hardcore elements from such notorious units as the Koevoet and De Kock’s infamous Vlakplaas who had not been able to reconcile to the prospect of a Rainbow Nation finally at peace with itself. The scary part related to the intel that linked Lenka to the militias in Eastern Congo, groups known up and down Africa for their horrific brutality toward women, children, and rival tribes. Modise had heard stories from his opposite number in Kinshasa, stories that only lately began to appear in the Western press. And all this, it seemed, went on with the tacit acquiescence from Rwanda and Uganda. Modise shook his head. Was there no end to this European obsession with exploiting Africa? Were not several centuries of colonial pillaging enough for them?

  The Russian intelligence arm, the FSB, wanted to know what Americans and the Arabs might be up to.

  So, it appears they had not turned up the North Korean connection yet. At least he hoped not. The FSB must have solicited Lenka’s organization to generate the intel they wanted which would allow them to maintain a position of deniability if it were revealed that such surveillance had been done. But, of course, Western intelligence agencies and Botswana’s DIS couldn’t verify any of this yet.

  Until now. One final entry, an apparent late addition, deepened his frown:

  The South Africa government has notified the UN Security Council that it recently seized a shipment of North Korean arms bound for Congo in violation of Security Council Resolution 1874 which bans all North Korean arms exports. Experts from the council’s North Korea Sanctions Panel have been tasked with probing the case. Western sources reported South Africa acted after receiving a tip from a French shipper. Inspection by authorities determined that the cargo contained spare parts for T-54 and T-55 tanks.

  Last December, Thai authorities also seized thirty-five tons of arms originating from North Korea, including missiles and rocket-propelled grenades, from aboard an Ilyushin cargo plane which landed for refueling in Bangkok. The crew was detained. They claimed they only carried oil drilling equipment bound for the Ukraine. The five crewmen, a Belarusian pilot and four Kazakh, were charged with possessing illegal weapons and ammunition, smuggling, and failing to report the cache.

  Could this have been one of Lenka’s planes? The report did not mention him or Nexus Aviation. Russian pilots had the reputation of being able to land practically anywhere.

  This is the second instance in which Thailand has played a role in interdicting illicit arms trafficking. Earlier it was credited with the apprehension of Victor Bout who was attempting to supply one of the Colombian drug cartels.

  Modise closed the file and replaced it in the case next to the green one that detailed Operation Paradise. He was struck by the irony represented in the two files in his attaché case. Both detailed threatened incursions into Botswana. But while the first posed a real and probably long term menace to the country, its people, and its economy, the other would be at worst, no more than a nuisance. Yet both required a wide deployment of law enforcement personnel, thereby thinning their ranks to the detriment to their effectiveness.

  Modise sighed, closed the case, and let his mind drift back to the predicament in which Painter and his friend now found themselves. It would be difficult to retrieve anything good from it, he felt. And with the World Cup coming up, Lenka would certainly be attracted to the possibilities associated with the games—gambling, bet fixing, procuring high class escorts, and supplying those special needs the wealthy and privileged seem to crave. He will have his eye on Painter’s Kasane operation and must have spotted Greshenko early on. If Painter thought that Kasane could be a civilized, mob-free gambling zone…he will soon find that compared to what could be coming together on the banks of the Chobe, Bugsy Siegel’s Las Vegas would seem like a church outing.

  “Modise,” he murmured to the empty car, “you and your colleagues will soon have your hands full, that’s for certain.”

  He started the engine and headed back to Kasane. He had more cheerful things to occupy him back there.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Botlhokwa had had his eye on the American’s casino pro
ject since they’d first met months before. But the hoped for opportunity to squeeze money from the American had evaporated when the authorities moved in after the American’s stepson was killed. Still, he had some ideas in mind with respect to the project. For example, protection against unhappy locals and employee labor relations. He could provide that and more in exchange for an equity position. Certainly, this American would not like his employees out on strike. And there were always chances of fires, accidents, and, well, you never knew. The possibilities spread out before him and gave him a warm feeling.

  He had not expected any visitors and was startled when that odious man Sczepanski barged into his office. He it was who’d badgered him before about Noga, when neither of them knew at the time that Noga was the one who’d bilked the two Boers out of money. What did he want now?

  “I am accustomed to having people knock before they enter,” Botlhokwa said. He shot the intruder a look as icy as he could manage. It immediately faded when he saw the automatic in his visitor’s hand. At least now he understood why this oaf had not been stopped by Henry Cunningham, a very large man to whom he paid substantial sums to protect him from these inconveniences.

  “Cunningham, are you alright?” No answer.

  “Your man, Cunningham…is that his name, truly?…He is not in a position to speak at the moment. He is in the company of several of my aides but will be allowed back to his post when we have completed our conversation—or perhaps not. Now,” the man settled into the chair opposite, “to business.”

  No options to hearing the man out occurred to Botlhokwa. He nodded and leaned back in his leather chair behind the great mahogany desk that he claimed had once belonged to Cecil Rhodes. His guest leaned forward, flipped open the cigar humidor on the desk’s edge, and helped himself to a handful of the Cohibas. He stuffed all but one into his inside jacket pocket, bit off the end of the remaining one, and lit it. He tilted back on the fragile chair’s back legs and swung his boots onto the desktop with a thump. It was all Botlhokwa could manage to not react to this rudeness. Not to mention the danger to his priceless furniture, at least not yet. They had Cunningham, but they would see that two could play at this game.