Deadly Harvest (19 page)

THIRTY-TWO

K
UBU WAS NOT HAPPY
.
He was cramped in the passenger seat of Samantha's Corolla with a tub of KFC chicken on his lap, and Samantha was barely on speaking terms with him. But the main source of his concern was their location. It was a poor area, a warren of dirt roads without street lighting. He was convinced there were ways in and out that he didn't know about. And they were much closer to the witch doctor's “safe house” than he would have liked, but he was concerned about getting to it quickly in the dark on the rough streets. Gobey had said he could look after himself—­he was, after all, a policeman—­but Kubu knew he was weakened by his illness. He wanted to be able to come to the deputy commissioner's aid quickly, if necessary.

Samantha knew none of this and was angry about being kept in the dark, untrusted. He offered her a piece of chicken, but she just shook her head. Kubu shrugged and went on eating. It was their camouflage in case anyone suspected them of being watchers. They'd simply pulled off the road to eat. That had been Kubu's idea. Two armed constables in plain clothes sat in the back, working through their own tub.

“What happens if your informant gives us the slip?” Samantha asked. “We'd lose him in a minute in this.” She waved at the dusty tracks wandering between the tiny houses and shacks.

“I told you. He's wired. I'm in constant contact with him through this.” He indicated the headset he was wearing. “And anyway he volunteered for this. He's not some informer that I bought.” Kubu tried to keep the defensive tone out of his voice. “All we have to do is wait. When he gets the signal from the house, he'll go in and keep the witch doctor occupied while we get there, and our second car comes from the other main road. Then we surround the house and go in. He'll have to really make himself invisible to get away. And we're covering the two main roads into the township; what can go wrong?”

“We'll see just now,” Samantha grumbled.

Kubu frowned and helped himself to another drumstick. He knew Joy wouldn't be impressed, but with Samantha not eating, he had to keep up their cover.

“Bengu. Come in.” Gobey's voice suddenly came through the earpiece, startling Kubu. He switched on his mike and responded.

“Yes,” said Gobey. “I'm outside the house. All quiet and dark. But that's how he operates. Always makes you wait, makes sure you know he's the important one. We may have to hang on half an hour. Just be patient.” He sounded nervous.

“No problem. I'll keep monitoring you.” Kubu muted his mike and radioed the driver of the other car to relay the message. Kubu was worried about Gobey. He was alone and sick, bait for a man who might well be a psychopathic killer as well as a witch doctor. He felt new respect for the deputy commissioner. Whatever he'd done in the past, he was carrying through on his promise.

A
S TIME PASSED,
K
UBU
could feel tension building up in his belly—­unless that was the tub of KFC he'd eaten. Samantha was still monosyllabic. Couldn't she see they were on the same side? Yet he had some sympathy for her attitude. How would
he
feel if Mabaku came up with an informant on one of his cases and refused to share that information with him? He kept his temper.

Time dragged, and Kubu brooded. What if they did catch this man? It wouldn't end the foul trade in human flesh. But if this was the man Mma Gondo had talked about—­the invisible killer, feared even by other witch doctors—­and if he could be brought down and sent to the gallows, then all of them would feel vulnerable. The killing wouldn't stop, but maybe it would be forced outside the borders of Botswana. That would be something.

Kubu checked his watch. Patience had never been his strongest suit; the lack of it had got him into big trouble in the Kalahari. At last Gobey's voice came again.

“There's no sign of him, Bengu. He's never kept me waiting this long—­over an hour now. I think he's spooked. Did you see anything?”

“Nothing suspicious. A few ­people walking down the road. We sat here pretending to be eating chicken.” Samantha snorted at the word
pretending
.

“Did the same person come past more than once?”

“Not as far as we could tell. But it's dark, and we didn't want to be too obviously nosy.”

“Where are the others?”

“They're waiting at the turnoff on the main road.”

Gobey sighed. “Somehow he realized you were police. That's the only possibility.” He hesitated, and then burst out, “Of course! That's why he always comes late. He watches the routes in. Stupid of us not to realize that. I thought it was all part of his act.” He started to cough.

“Let's go home,” he said when he'd caught his breath. “We won't find him tonight. He was too smart for us. This time.”

Kubu turned to Samantha. “My informant thinks the suspect caught on that we were watching. Maybe that's why he always keeps his clients waiting.”

“So what now?”

“We call it off. We'll have to come up with a Plan B.” He called the other car and told them to head back to the police station at once. He wanted them out of the way before the deputy commissioner's car headed down the road.

Suddenly Samantha turned to him and indicated he should switch off his mike. When he'd done so, she said, “Kubu, it's all a ploy. You won't tell me what you've got on this guy, but I bet he never set up a meeting at all! It's just a hoax to get you off his back. I say we pull him in. Right now. And see what he knows that he's not telling you.”

Kubu thought about it. Was Gobey leading them up the garden path? Wasting their time? Even
covering
for the witch doctor? But for what reason?
He
approached
us
. We have
nothing
on him. He shook his head.

“Let's get back to the police station, Samantha, drop off these guys, and pick up my car. There's nothing more we can do tonight. That's final.”

Samantha started the car, slammed it into gear, put her foot down, and did a screeching U-­turn. Kubu hastily fastened his seat belt.

THIRTY-THREE

T
HE NEXT
MORNING
M
ABAKU,
Kubu, and Gobey met again in the director's office. Gobey wanted to avoid meeting in his own office. Mabaku asked Miriam to bring them tea and coffee, and cookies for Kubu, and they didn't talk until she had served and closed the door behind her.

“What now?” Mabaku asked.

“The deputy commissioner and I think that the witch doctor smelled a rat,” said Kubu. “I think we should follow up on the leads the deputy commissioner has given us. We'll keep a watch on the house, but I doubt the witch doctor will go back there now. We'll also trace its owner—­it's not going to be the witch doctor, I'm sure—­and check for fingerprints and other forensics stuff. We'll do that discreetly. We'll also make some inquiries around the area, see if anyone's seen a man who doesn't live around there but visits from time to time.”

Gobey nodded. “That sounds right. I'll contact the witch doctor again. Ask why he didn't appear. Play dumb.”

“How do you make that contact?” Mabaku asked quietly.

Gobey hesitated.

“Deputy Commissioner, you're going to have to tell us anything that might help.”

Gobey nodded and sighed. “I send an e-­mail to what appears to be a secure address. Here it is.” He pulled a small sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mabaku. “He doesn't respond to it, but he phones me a day or so later. Usually he just tells me the time to come to the house.”

“We can trace the calls to your cell phone,” said Kubu.

Gobey shook his head. “I've done that; they come from public phones all over the place. One even from Mochudi.”

Kubu sat forward, thinking of Lesego. “Even so, we need that information. We might be able to detect a pattern from the location of the calls. And we'll need to arrange a twenty-­four-­hour monitor on the calls you receive. With your permission, of course.”

Gobey nodded. He was beginning to regret his decision to tell Mabaku his story, but he was in too deep to back out now. “I'll get you all that information,” he said.

Kubu decided to push his luck. “And we're going to have to bring Detective Khama in on this. She's working on the case and can't be kept in the dark.”

Gobey turned to him angrily. “No! We agreed no one else. And especially not a woman.”

Kubu didn't like that, but he was forced to accept it.

A
S SOON AS THE
deputy commissioner had left, Mabaku and Kubu discussed Gobey's reluctance to allow anyone else to be involved.

“I know you're skeptical,” Mabaku said, “but you're going to have to trust me that he's honest. He's put himself in a very vulnerable spot and is scared of losing his reputation before he retires.”

“Okay,” Kubu replied, standing up to leave. “Let me check on that e-­mail address he gave you. That could be very helpful indeed. I'll call the IT guys in Forensics right away to find out more about it. I'll let you know.”

Kubu took the piece of paper from Mabaku and headed to his office.

He immediately phoned Forensics and asked to be put through to Helenka Koslov, a young Russian woman who had emigrated to Africa both for its wildness and its warmth. Forensics immediately saw the benefits of having an outstanding IT person on its staff and hired her right away. Her skills had already been used to convict several ­people on identity-­theft charges, as well as one potential bank robber, who had left an electronic trail as obvious as a herd of elephants.

“Yes?” Helenka said as she answered the phone.

“Helenka,” Kubu replied, “this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu.”

“Ah, yes. What can I do for you?”

“What can you tell me about Hushmail?”

“You have lover you want to talk to privately, no?”

Kubu laughed. “I'm afraid not. This Hushmail may be a clue in a case we're working on.”

“Okay.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “You use Hushmail if you don't want others to know about your e-­mails. It is very easy to read most ­people's ordinary e-­mails without difficulty. Hushmail encrypts e-­mail and attachments using PGP encryption, so if e-­mail is intercepted, it cannot be read unless reader also has access to sender's private password. This type of ser­vice is very popular in countries, like Russia, where government scans many e-­mails. Companies also use Hushmail to exchange trade secrets.”

“The e-­mails must be stored somewhere. Couldn't we get access to them there?”

“It is possible, but difficult. If I remember, the company is in Vancouver, Canada. You would have to get court order from there to make company to release information. That might be difficult and take long time.”

“And would they know the real identity of the owner of the e-­mail address?”

“No. Not that even. But could tell you IP addresses of computers sending and receiving messages. IP address is, well, it's sort of like serial number that computer tells them.”

Kubu wasn't a computer expert, but he thought he understood how this worked.

“If I
had
a lover with a Hushmail address, would I send her an e-­mail from
my
computer or would I have to sign into Hushmail or would I go to an Internet café?”

“Ah. Good question. You can send e-­mail from your computer. But dangerous because wife could find e-­mail in Sent folder. But if you delete it from Sent folder, wife find nothing. But police can find it from ISP if you use their e-­mail, even if you delete it. But need search warrant. You know what is ISP?”

“Yes, Internet ser­vice provider,” Kubu answered, trying to keep track of all the alternatives.

“But, if you use Hotmail or Gmail, more difficult,” Helenka continued. “Police can find e-­mail but have to get court order to go to Microsoft or Google. In USA. Take time.”

“And can someone find out if I have a Hushmail account?”

“Of course. Local ISP will know you access Hushmail. But won't know contents of e-­mail.”

“What about if I use an Internet café?”

“Same as home, except have to know you went there. You still use local or overseas e-­mail account. Or Hushmail.”

Kubu thought for a few minutes. “So, if someone sends an e-­mail to a Hushmail address, we have to get a court order in Canada to get any details of who reads it. Right?”

“Yes. Any more questions?” Helenka was obviously eager to hang up.

“No more questions, Helenka,” Kubu replied. “But please talk to Detective Khama and prepare an application for a court order in Canada, in case we need it. I'll e-­mail you the Hushmail address.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for your help. I may have more questions later.”

“Okay,” she said again and hung up.

Kubu pondered what he had heard and wondered whether he should send an e-­mail to the witch doctor from his private e-­mail asking for a consultation. After a few minutes' thought, he decided against it, because it would likely alert the witch doctor that his e-­mail scheme had been found out.

T
HE CALL CAME AT
precisely 4 p.m. Deputy Commissioner Gobey hadn't expected that. He'd expected the ring in the dark hours of the morning when, perhaps, he'd finally drifted into sleep. He picked up the cell phone, noted the number as private, and answered.

“Gobey.”

“Yes. Why, Gobey? Why did you do it?” The voice was cool, almost a whisper, appearing just vaguely interested in the answer.

Gobey recognized the voice at once. Adrenaline flowed, but he kept his voice calm as he quickly walked through to his PA's office.

“Do what? I came to the meeting as arranged. But you weren't there.”

He picked up the PA's pen and scribbled on her blotter: “Trace.”

“Don't play games with me, Gobey. You knew you were followed. By the police.”

“Followed? The police?” Gobey tried to sound surprised. He had to keep the witch doctor talking. Soon they would know where the call originated, and a police vehicle would be on the way.

“You think I don't know?” There was a laugh. It started like a deep chuckle but finished as something that should never come from a human throat. Gobey's skin crawled.

“I know everything,” the voice continued. “I know where you are, what you're doing. Everything. Perhaps one of your own ­people is watching you for me. Or, maybe, it isn't a
person
at all.” The laugh came again.

“What are you talking about? I came to the meeting. Waited as always. But you didn't appear, so eventually I came home. That's what happened.” He had to keep the conversation going, had to give them time.

There was a moment's pause, and the response when it came was almost sad. “You're waiting for them to trace this call, aren't you, Gobey? You're pathetic. Now listen carefully.” There was another pause, and then the voice said, much more loudly, “I don't need you anymore, Gobey. Do you understand?
I don't need you anymore.
”

Gobey felt that the phone had become a live thing, writhing in his hand. He nearly dropped it. He wanted to disconnect the call, but he knew he shouldn't. And the voice came again, “
I don't need you anymore.
” Then the connection was broken.

Gobey dropped the phone and rushed to his secretary.

“Did they get it?”

She was speaking to someone on the phone but covered the mouthpiece and turned to him.

“The call came from a public phone in Africa Mall. A police car is nearly there.” She turned her attention back to the phone.

Africa Mall! Right downtown! So close. Gobey collapsed into the visitor's chair and waited. But he knew the witch doctor wouldn't be there. Knew he would vanish. He wouldn't be walking around dressed in an animal skin and a mask. He would fade into the shopping crowds. No one would know where to look. Gobey waited a few minutes that seemed endless. At last she turned back to him.

“They grabbed a man at the phone, but he was the next caller. But he remembered the man who was there before him. They're getting a description. And checking for other witnesses.”

Gobey nodded. He knew the value of casual eyewitnesses. They would get more from his own description of the man, even dressed in his witch doctor camouflage.

“Get onto Assistant Superintendent Bengu and tell him what happened. He should talk to the witness and check if there are any CCTVs around.” Then he walked back to his office and collapsed into his desk chair. His breathing, never easy, became labored. He reached for his inhaler, took a ­couple of puffs, and tried to calm down. He looked around his office, recalling the witch doctor's words. He coughed and spotted his cell phone discarded on the desk. He doesn't need me anymore, he thought. I'll change the number, but he won't call again. He doesn't need me anymore.

He gathered some papers and shoved them into his briefcase, closed down his computer, and grabbed his jacket.

“Lori, I'm going home. I don't feel too well. I'll see you on Monday.”

The PA looked at him with concern. “Yes, of course, rra. I'll arrange everything. I hope you feel better for the weekend.”

Gobey nodded, tried to smile, and left.

H
E HAD JUST TURNED
into the main road when his phone rang again. He checked the number and switched the call to his hands-­free car kit.

“Hello, Bengu.”

“
Dumela
, Deputy Commissioner. I'm following up on the call from the witch doctor. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you tell me exactly what he said? It'll take a while to get the recording.”

Gobey told him.

“What did he mean by ‘I don't need you anymore'?”

Gobey shook his head. “I've no idea.” But a cold wave ran up his spine. “Have you traced the owner of that house?”

“The registered owner thinks it's empty. He was pretty upset that someone was using it.”

“Was he telling the truth?”

“I think so.”

“Where could he have been? He obviously watched and saw that I was being followed. That's why he always comes after you've been waiting for a while. He—­or some helper—­is checking. We should've been more careful.”

“We didn't realize he was that clever. But we'll get him. He had to walk to the shack; you said there was no car there the other times. Someone will have noticed him.”

“It won't do me any good.” Why did I say that? Gobey asked himself. Suddenly he had an overwhelming feeling that
something
was watching him from the backseat. The feeling was so strong that he turned at once and was surprised to see the seat empty. When he turned back to the road, a truck had cut in front of him, and he had to slam on the brakes. His tires screeched.

“Bengu, I'm in traffic. I need to concentrate. Call me later if there's anything else.” He cut the connection.