Payback - A Cape Town thriller (32 page)

‘They aren’t about to hear above that,’ said Pylon, pressing the buzzer again.

Through the hall Mace could see glass doors giving onto a lawn mown in neat stripes. Some peacocks wandering on it, dragging their tails. Pylon gave the bell another long session. Again the two men waited, Pylon reading off the seconds: thirty seconds, one minute, minute and a half, said, ‘Shit, this’s ridiculous.’

Above them a voice said, ‘Welcome to my house, gentlemen, sorry that you are kept waiting. Tão, please to come in and up the stair.’

Standing at the top of the stairs was a moon-faced man,
thick-necked
, the flesh bulging over his collar. A short dumpy man in a pale blue shirt, the white collar fastened with a tie. He flashed them a smile of bright teeth. ‘Bom, I am Dr Kiambu. Tão, please. Join with me.’

On the landing he shook their hands. ‘You enjoy soccer,
gentlemen
?’ A Portuguese accent tingeing his English.

Mace and Pylon nodded. ‘I am afraid the match is almost
full-time
, but come. Manchester United against Spurs. This is what I would call a mid-period time for Gascoigne at the end of the season of 1989-90. You like soccer?’

He took them into a long dim room, the shutters up, a wall of bookcases, on the other walls paintings in ornate gold frames of Portuguese sailing ships and peasants tilling fields. Persians on the parquet flooring. What was missing, Mace thought, was a suit of armour. At the one end a desk, at the other leather armchairs facing a television screen. The only light from the television, a man’s head silhouetted against it. On screen a moment of tension: Manchester taking a corner. The ball goes up, is intercepted, kicked away mid-field.

‘Frigging useless,’ said the man in the armchair, half-turning towards the group behind him.

‘Tão please,’ said Dr Kiambu, ‘let me introduce you to John Webster.’

John Webster came off the chair sideways like a hunting spider. A thin-lipped thin man in jeans and a green open-necked shirt worn loose Madiba-style. Mace took one look at him and didn’t like him. Didn’t like freckled faces, ginger hair, in tight waves close to the scalp.

They shook hands, Webster putting more clinch into it than necessary. Mace held the grip, caught the devil in the man’s eyes, mocking him.

‘Everything in order?’ Webster said, no niceties, his thin lips pulled into a sneer.

‘No reason it shouldn’t be,’ said Mace, jerking free his hand.

Webster kept his smirk. ‘Good, then let’s see what the frig you’ve brought us.’

‘Us?’ said Pylon. ‘You’re the diamond checker, right?’

‘Good gentlemen,’ said Kiambu. ‘Tão please. My friend John checks diamonds for you, and weapons for me. Is there a problem?’ He laid a podgy hand on Webster’s arm, glanced from Pylon to Mace.

‘This isn’t how we expected it,’ said Mace.

Dr Kiambu beamed. ‘Come please Mr Bishop. In Angola certain skills are in what we call short supply. We must fix our arrangements in the best way we can. Mr Webster is a professional. He can make these judgements without compromise. Surely? Or your Ms Medicis would not have sought him out to advise you.’ He picked up a remote, switched off the television set. ‘Tão, we go to business. I would be happy if Mr Buso comes with me. Mr Bishop, perhaps you will accompany with John, yes? Afterwards we can place you at your hotel, no problem.’

Mace caught Pylon’s eye, saw there the same unease he felt. He frowned, but said nothing as Kiambu ushered them down the stairs.

In the driveway the black Mercedes had been joined by a second. The chauffeurs were big men, wore guns holstered on their belts.

‘Where to?’ said Webster.

‘The harbour.’ Mace slipped into the back seat, smelling new leather.

‘Where the frig else.’ Webster slammed Mace’s door closed, got in the front. ‘Let me guess, huh.’ He leered round at Mace. ‘You’re storing in the Rasta’s compound.’ Webster laughed. ‘Amazing.’ Gave directions to the driver in Portuguese. ‘I heard tell you once were major traders. That right?’

Mace didn’t respond.

‘I’d have thought you might have made other arrangements. Not left enough hardware to stage a frigging coup lying in the hands of a mushbrain so that every nignog with his mother’s AK could pop round to liberate it.’ He gave his thin-lipped sneer. ‘Get my meaning?’

Mace stared at him until Webster turned away, grunting, ‘
Frigging
arsehole.’

Mace leant forward, whispered in Webster’s ear. ‘I wouldn’t push it any further, okay.’

‘I’ll push it any frigging way I want,’ said Webster.

Mace sat back, smiled at the driver’s eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror. Heard Webster put through a brief cellphone call in Portuguese.

* * *

The Mercs stopped at the gates to the compound, the Rasta sitting in the shade watching them get out. The drivers yelled at him to open up and he sauntered over, no servility in his manner, taking his time unlocking the chains. Mace noted the Argentinian had sailed, only the old tanker moored against the wharf. By the state of it had been moored there a long time. As he turned away he glimpsed two men come out on the upper deck and wave down at them. He raised a hand in greeting. Second to the Rasta’s job, securing a rusting hulk in a wrecked harbour had to be the pits. They had his sympathy. He went through the security gates and joined Dr Kiambu while Pylon unlocked the container.

Kiambu stepped inside, mopping at the perspiration on his face with a handkerchief. ‘Tão please tell me, this is everything we requested?’

The firing started before either Mace or Pylon could answer, the bullets slamming loud against the steel container. Mace spun, grabbed the door to pull it closed as Webster scooted in. Saw one driver running off, the other crouched behind the Merc. No sign of the Rasta. The volley ceased, a couple of single shots then quiet.

‘How many?’ said Pylon.

‘Two for sure.’ Mace eased the door open to widen the line of sight. The driver was where he’d been, a pistol in his hand.

Webster called to him and the guy raised his head and may have said something but the shooting came again. Webster cursed, said, ‘Where’s that Rasta? This’s gotta be his setup.’

In the quiet Mace could hear someone whistling. ‘Why’s that?’ he said, pushing the door open a crack to let in light.

Webster came round on him. ‘What d’you think this is about, frigger? This’s about guns ‘n diamonds and about arseholes who waltz in here like it’s a picnic.’

‘The Rasta’s gone,’ said Pylon. ‘So’s the driver now.’

Webster snorted. ‘Frigging likely.’

‘See for yourself.’ Pylon stood back from the door. ‘See him run.’

Webster looked. ‘Arsehole.’

‘Please,’ said Kiambu, ‘it could also be that I am the target. Before they have tried to kidnap me for a ransom.’

Mace said, ‘What makes you so precious?’

‘He’s a frigging cabinet minister.’ Webster flicked a cigarette from a pack. ‘Jesus. Who’re you guys?’

‘I am minister for transport,’ said Kiambu. ‘In our politics there is great suspicion. Everyone is watching his back.’

Pylon shook his head. ‘Unlikely this is about you. How was anyone gonna know you’d be here?’

Kiambu smiled. ‘In Luanda they say there are no secrets.
Everywhere
there are spies finding out all the business. It could be that someone has heard about these’ - he pointed at the crates - ‘and so they think they can make a nice killing.’ He kept his smile. ‘That is what you say in English, sim?’ Sweat stained Kiambu’s shirt, dark spots where the material pulled across his breasts and under his armpits. He dabbed at his face. ‘What do you think, John? Should we call for some help? Tamoda, maybe.’

‘Wouldn’t the bastard just rush to help you.’

‘Then Xitu.’

‘Ha, Xitu. Xitu would love this.’

Kiambu sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Face it, doctor. You’ve got no leverage there.’ Webster stood at the half-open door, blowing exhale out the corner of his mouth. He held the cigarette cupped into his hand.

‘So what do you think?’

‘I think it’s a mess, is what I think. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. We’re stuck in this shit-pit.’

‘Until it’s dark,’ said Mace. ‘They don’t make a move before then we’ll walk away.’

‘Yeah. And leave all this stuff. No chance, mate. No way in hell.’

Pylon turned to Mace. ‘Take a look, they’re just standing up there on the deck.’ He waved, and one of the figures brought up his gun and unleashed a clip, the bullets zinging and clanging against the container. They waited for the silence. ‘Stalemate.’ Pylon pointed at the crates. ‘Somewhere in this lot has to be a rifle we can use to slot them.’

Mace’s cellphone rang. He thumbed it on. ‘This is New York,’ the voice said. ‘Am I talking to Mace Bishop?’ Saying before Mace could answer, ‘This is Francisco Medicis calling to find out what’s happening.’

‘It’s not a good time,’ said Mace.

Francisco talking over him. ‘I’m getting voicemail every connection I make to Isabella’s phone, and Mr Ludovico was breaking up last time we spoke. Since then only his voicemail. What I need to know’re the circumstances, Mr Bishop. Like where you’re at geographically speaking.’

Mace said, ‘Luanda. Your man John Webster’s right here.’

‘That right,’ said Francisco, ‘this deal is going down?’

‘Not how we expected,’ said Mace.

‘Again,’ said Francisco. ‘I’m getting interference.’

Mace said, ‘What’s happening here is we have the weapons. We have the buyer. We have not seen the diamonds. We are being shot at.’

‘Say again. You’re dropping, Mr Bishop.’

Mace shouted, ‘This is a heist situation’ - the connection broke and Mace thumbed it off. ‘Christ!’ To Webster. ‘That was the man who put this together.’

Webster came off the crates, ground the butt into the container’s wooden floor. ‘Like I give a damn.’ He drew out a .38 from beneath the loose hang of his shirt, put it on Mace and Pylon. ‘Back there. With the good doctor.’

‘John!’ exclaimed Kiambu. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s what he said,’ said Webster, pushing the cabinet minister against the crates until he sat down. ‘The only thing our friend here’s got right all afternoon. This’s a heist. Come gents, come.’ He levelled the gun on Mace and Pylon. ‘Oblige me. Sit down here beside our little politician.’ He dug in his jeans pocket for his cellphone and pressed digits, half an eye on his captives. ‘Excuse me one moment.’

Mace nudged Pylon but Webster caught the movement and smiled. ‘Be good. Don’t try it on, yeah. You’ll be a frigging dead smart-arse.’ He brought up the phone, spoke in Portuguese. When he thumbed it off, said, ‘Any last minute calls you guys want to make?’

‘John… Who is that?’

‘Some friends, doctor. People you’re gonna spend some time with. Nothing to stress about.’ He turned to Mace and Pylon. ‘How about you, what’s your name, Pylon? Hey, what’s with you guys? Mace and Pylon? Like a comedy act. Pylon. What sort of frigging name’s Pylon? You have pylons running past your village, that was the first thing your mother saw after you wriggled out? So cute, you darkies, calling your babies all these weird names.’

Pylon stared at him blank-eyed.

‘And Mace. Macey-boy. Someone had a sense of humour here? So who’s out there, boys? Gotta have some chicks somewhere. Two blokes like you two. Macho types. Gun dealers. Men of the world. What d’you say Pylon? No girlfriend, wife, mother to say goodbye to?’

Pylon held out his hand for the phone.

‘Who’s it to be mate? Your wife? She sitting there in the shack with all the piccanins waiting for her hubby to bring home the kill like a good Zulu.’

‘Xhosa,’ said Pylon.

‘There’s a difference?’

Pylon didn’t answer.

In the distance Mace could hear a truck grinding in low gear, saw Webster focused on Pylon, heard the lorry change up to second, and closer someone calling Webster’s name. Webster yelling at Pylon, ‘Zulu, Xhosa, Zulu, Xhosa’ getting close to Pylon, putting the gun right in his face. Webster screaming, ‘You frigging golliwog.’

Mace heard the click of the misfire. Even in the fracas, loud as a gunshot. He pulled the Taurus from his belt, wracked it, gut shot Webster, saw Pylon wrench the pistol from the guy’s hand, heard men shouting, running, the truck closer now. Webster bent double and Mace grabbed him about the neck, walked him step by step to the door, the gun at the diamond man’s head.

‘What you have to do,’ he said to Webster, ‘is tell your frigging chinas to go home.’

Webster spat blood, groaned something that sounded to Mace like no human words. Mace shook the guy, getting the pain of the gut wound to make Webster buckle in his grip. He pulled him up, feeling the stickiness of blood underfoot. Webster as heavy as deadweight.

Pylon pushed past to open the container door. Outside stood two men with AKs pointing at them.

‘Stage’s all yours,’ said Mace, digging the gun into Webster’s ear. ‘Talk to them.’ At the same time felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, the ringing lasting for seven counts until the call went to voicemail.