Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 02 (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

“We’d be taking a huge risk, you understand.” The speaker was tall and rangy, his accent from somewhere in the old Empire but difficult to place…Australia, South Africa, New Zealand, cockney, all of the above?

“It can’t miss, chum,” his companion said, his accent seemingly from the same world, Brit, but not quite. “They know those nutters will be bringing in the
kak
by the lorry full. Look, for the next several months or so the bloody place will be crawling with smugglers, all sorts of dodgy types, not to mention spies, potential assassins, suicide bombers, and more drunks than on Irish Sweepstakes day. With all the things the coppers have to look out for, they’ll not waste much time on this stuff. Worst case, they toss it in a rubbish heap and run our guys back across the border.”

“You realize that if you’re wrong and they tumble to what we’ve got in these cones we’re dead? Either we’re doing time in the local pokey, or more likely, our business partners, assuming we can find someone loopy enough to back this dodge, will feed us to the crocs.”

“No worries. Look, we’re mixing in our stuff with these quartz bits, metal filings, powder, and fiber glass. They’ll think it’s orgonite for a cert. Hell’s bells, it
is
orgonite. Even if they crack it open, unless they’re looking, they’ll need a sharp eye to separate the coltan from the rest of the junk.”

“There’s the third possibility you haven’t thought about. People say the
Bratva
is moving in. They will claim this as their territory and then what happens to us?”

“All rumors and so what? We’re small chips to those blokes—flies at the picnic. Not worth bothering with.”

“I don’t know. We’d be putting a half million Euros worth of minerals in that mess. That’s got to mean something to somebody if they tumble to us.”

“Park off, Harvey, you worry too much.”

“Okay, let’s say we get under the Russian mob’s radar or maybe they aren’t coming or don’t care, like you said. How can we be sure we can deliver it? I mean we dump it in the…what? The park, the river? Then, what if the stuff disappears?”

“Easy-peasy, Jack. All we need to do is keep track of where we drop it, and it won’t be the river.”

“How? It’s a hell of a big jungle out there.”

“Not a jungle, it’s called the bush. See, we drop it here and there and then log in coordinates on a GPS tracking device. Our clients will buy a list of the locations, see? Maybe we don’t put all the locations on the same list. It’ll depend on who we round up to sell to. They get out their GPS things, tap in the coordinates, and go pick up the goods, and if they’re satisfied they return the thing and maybe buy another list. Maybe they buy the whole lot including the device. All sorts of possibilities here.”

“And if they’re caught?”

“If they are caught…well, we still have the locations on the master and can look for another client. Got it? And don’t forget, they can pick them up at their leisure. The officials have no reason to stop them, they’re all local. And if there are too many coppers in the field, they just wait for another day. I tell you, it’s brill.”

“And what’s to keep someone else from coming along and picking them up or moving them?”

“Lions, crocodiles, hyenas, leopards, you name it. Who’s going to risk wandering around the Chobe National Game Park? The only people in there, besides our mob, will be ­tourists with cameras
on game drives and what are they told never to do? Never leave your vehicle.”

“But they might.”

“They might. To take a picture maybe. But it’s against the law to even pick up a feather or a bone, maybe even a pretty rock, so who’s going to go for this ugly shite? No way.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Bloody cupcake is what this is, Jack.”

***

Modise listened to Sanderson’s explanation of what had happened at the murder scene. She was careful to not be critical of Superintendent Mwambe’s apparent intention to keep it a suicide if he could. Modise said he would look into that end, and she shouldn’t worry herself over it. The business of the fence opening bothered him though.

“The only reason anyone would create such an opening is to avoid being recorded in the park. It’s not as if the park was difficult to enter, or for that matter terribly expensive. Anyone who had any business in the area could arrange for passes, and all sorts of other quite legitimate means of gaining access. No, it is clear that the fence has been breached specifically to enable the wrong sort of persons into the park. The question is who?”

“I am thinking you will need to determine why.” Sanderson said, and poured him a cup of tea. “Would you prefer coffee?”

“Tea is fine, thank you, Sanderson. I think we are knowing why. People who wish to exchange contraband, smugglers, all sorts of things, they wish not to see the light of day.”

“But why in the park. Wouldn’t it be easier to meet in an alley, a warehouse, somewhere easily gotten to?”

“It would, but that would risk someone witnessing the exchange, possibly. Also, in the park there is a secondary level of security, you could say.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you are situated in the game park you will be surrounded by the animals.”

“Perhaps. It is a big park and there is much open space with no animals in it. They move about, you know.”

“They do, I am sure. You would certainly know that, but do the men from the cities know it and even if they do, how will they know if this is an area where it is safe? As you say, the animals move about.”

Sanderson wasn’t so sure but she let it go. Modise was right about one thing; unless you worked with them every day, you would not know where and how often the predators might appear in any particular place. And if they caught your scent…

“So, what shall we do?”

“Show me these cameras you have discovered in your storage room.”

Sanderson called Charles Tlalelo into the office and the two dragged the equipment they’d found earlier into the room.

“Inspector Modise, this is Charles Tlalelo. Charles, this is Inspector Kgabo Modise. He is from Gabz and is a very important policeman.”

Charles extended his right hand, his left touching its elbow. “
Dumela,
Rra
.
”

“Dumela,
Charles, how are you keeping?”

“
Ke teng
.”

“Tell me about this apparatus.”

“Well,” Charles began, looking very serious. Sanderson smiled as he spoke and Modise caught the smile, nodded in her direction, but kept his expression serious. The young man was nervous and trying not to seem so. “There was a crew of filmmakers here some months ago. They were in the park filming the animals. At least that is what they said they were doing. Making a documentary for the cinema, but…”

“But?”

“I am not so sure that is what they were about. The crew, they were you could say, unlikely.”

“Unlikely? How do you mean that?”

“They were several young women, very pretty young women to be exact, and they did not look to me like naturalists.”

“I see. So they were filming something in the park. Why are the cameras here?”

“They left them and never returned when Mr. Pako…he was—”

“Sanderson’s predecessor. I know who he was.”

“Yes, well, he discovered they did not have the proper permits to be in the park disturbing the animals. He sent them packing. They never came back.”

“Yes. Okay. That is a mystery in itself. This is very fine equipment. Have you looked at any of it, tried it out?”

“No. We did charge up the batteries. They were flat.”

“I think I will have a look. The cassettes are still in the cameras?”

“Yes. Video tapes, expensive ones I think.”

Modise snapped a battery in one of the cameras and rewound the tape. Then he flipped open the screen and played the film. Images of lions and hyenas, of several kinds of gazelles appeared. There was a blank and then there were people. Two people to be precise. Modise watched, mouth agape, as the man and the woman embraced, disrobed and…”

“Sanderson, I must confiscate these tapes. All of them. There is a reason these filmmakers did not return. I will find you new blank tapes, but these will be evidence if we ever find these men again.”

Sanderson looked puzzled. Modise said he did not wish to share the contents of the tapes with her. He was sorry. It was police business. He proceeded to collect all of the cassettes and place them in a plastic bag which he sealed and initialed.

“We will speak of this another time. I will return in an hour. It is enough to say that you were correct and you were incorrect, Charles. The women are very definitely ‘naturalists’ but not in the sense you meant it,” he said, and left with a wave of his hand.

Sanderson and Charles Tlalelo exchanged puzzled looks. Sanderson had not told him of her encounter with the threatening man. It would have to wait it seemed.

Chapter Thirteen

Superintendent Mwambe watched Kgabo Modise as he walked up the path to the station. He did not like Modise. He represented everything that had changed from the old days. He was young. He was smart. He was successful. Mwambe had tracked this young man since the previous winter when he had insinuated himself into the business that properly belonged to Mwambe, to the Kasane Station. And now, here he is back again. What did he want this time? He picked up the Orgone Zapper from his desk and shoved it into a desk drawer. Modise did not need to know about that.

“Inspector Modise, you have honored my station with your presence, yet again. May I ask the occasion? Surely there is nothing so important in the wilds of the north that requires the attention of the rising star from the DIS.”

Modise let the not-so-subtle sarcasm slide. He did not want a match with this man. He needed his cooperation, as much as he wished it were not so.

“Superintendent Mwambe, so good to see you again. I am here on behalf of the director and the H. E., the president, as it happens. There will be a heightened presence of police and security needed for the games in South Africa this June, you see.”

“Heightened? I do not understand that word, Modise. The station here is able to meet any requirements and has always done so. After all the games are being played hundreds of kilometers away in South Africa. How can that affect us up here?”

“As you know from your years of experience, we have a long border and it is easily penetrated. The people coming to these games will spill over into this country. They will have money to spend and appetites that can create trouble.” Mwambe started to say something but Modise held up his hand. “Furthermore, the Mowana Lodge will be receiving the personage of the American Secretary of State, and the other lodges will house many officials from the Middle East and elsewhere. There will be the usual security problems which will add to your duties here, and of course, there is always the threat of an assassination to consider.”

Mwambe’s jaw went slack. It was too much. He started to say so.

“Superintendent Mwambe, you will need some help here, I am sure. I am authorized to assign some auxiliary officers from other jurisdictions to you when the time comes and the BDF will increase their surveillance of the border. We will also be working closely with the local game ranger stations and—”

“I am thinking that will be a large mistake,” Mwambe muttered. “That Sanderson woman was promoted over several men who were much better qualified for the position. She is not suited to the task. Her people may not be so anxious to follow her lead, you see. I think you should have her sent down to look to other duties.”

“I understand your thoughts on this, but that will not be acceptable. And since you bring up her name, I understand she turned a murder over to you. What can you tell me about that?”

“She says murder, but she is a game ranger, not a skilled policeman. It is not murder until a complete investigation is completed.”

“If it is not a murder, Superintendent, what then? Surely you are not thinking suicide.” Modise knew that Mwambe was, in fact, leaning in that direction. “It is an absurd notion, of course. Why would someone drive all the way down from the Congo, enter the park by a surreptitious entry in the middle of the night, and then shoot himself. No, it is most likely he went to meet someone and that someone betrayed him, don’t you agree?” At the mention of a possible meeting, Modise noted that Mwambe became visibly uncomfortable.

“A full investigation will tell us what we need to know about this business.”

“Yes, of course. May I see the vehicle? Oh yes, and the medical report, if you will.”

Mwambe’s expression became thunderous. Modise knew he was treading in where he needn’t, but he also knew that Mwambe might very well let this business slip out of his hands. His instinct told him it might be important well beyond another murder and that it might, like a crocodile who lurks just below the river’s surface, rise up to bite them later.

“Modise, it is not necessary for you to investigate. I am in the process of doing so, and this station is fully competent in the procedures to be followed.”

“I am sure you will do a fine job, Superintendent. I have every confidence in you, but I have a secondary purpose in mind. I need to inspect the vehicle and read the report. Please allow me this small thing.”

Mwambe sorted through the stack of reports on his desk and all but threw one folder at Modise. “The vehicle is in the impound portion of the parking area. You may see it there,” he turned and stalked away. Modise sighed and sat down to read the report. After a few minutes he stepped out into the foyer and flagged down a junior officer and requested he make copies of the contents in the folder. He then let himself out the rear door of the police station and walked to the old Land Rover. He circled it twice before opening the driver’s side door. Evidence of the gunshot wound still stained the upholstery and had attracted many flies. He crouched and scrutinized the door opposite. The door frame sported a neat hole. He called over one of the officers Mwambe had evidently sent to observe him.

“Do you see that hole in the door frame?”

The young man seemed confused at being addressed but recovered. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“What is your best guess as to the source of the hole?”

“I cannot say, sir.”

“Think, man. What does it look like?”

“A hole.”

Modise shoulders sagged and he turned his head toward the officer. “Try again, only this time try to remember you are a policeman. What’s your name?”

“Derek Kgasa, sir. Might it be a bullet hole? It is round and it has penetrated much steel, I am thinking. So, a bullet hole?”

“Brilliant, Derek. Now I want you to produce some evidence bags and see if you can dig that bullet out of the door frame. Do not worry if you have to take the door apart. It is more important we find the bullet than preserve the truck, you see?”

Modise left Derek Kgasa to the task he’d assigned him and stepped to the rear of the Land Rover. “The report said there was nothing in the cargo area of this vehicle. Is that correct?”

Derek looked up from his efforts to disassemble the door and nodded. “Yes, that is so. I was here when it was towed in. The only things in the back were some rubbish, bits of plaster or something like that.”

“Didn’t that strike you as odd, Derek? If this man was murdered in the park doesn’t it strike you that he must have had something that someone else wanted and they took it before they left?”

“I had not thought of that, no. That is very interesting. So, it wasn’t a suicide?”

Modise didn’t answer but shook his head and opened the rear of the SUV. “What’s this?”

“Sir?”

“Is this the rubbish you described? Hand me another evidence bag. How are you doing with that bullet?”

Derek handed Modise a clear plastic bag and gave one last tug at the window ledge. The door liner fell away and the bullet dropped onto the floorboards.

“Bag that.” Modise carefully turned his attention back to the rear of the SUV. He swept the bits and pieces of resin into a bag, sealed it and turned back to the station. “I must resume my conversation with your boss. Please bring him to me in his office.”