The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (16 page)

Not good, he thought. These guys knew what they were doing.
Dupie was thankful to be alive and relatively uninjured. He heard a
muffled sound and remembered Salome. She’s alive, he thought. Thank
heaven. He grunted a response and rolled onto his side and wriggled
toward where he thought she was. A few moments later his head
touched her, but he could not tell where her head was. He grunted
again. She replied in kind.

He wriggled until he thought he was pointing toward the tent
door. He used his legs to push himself forward. On the third or
fourth push, his head banged into something solid.

“Fuck,” he shouted, muffled through the gag.

He wriggled again, changing direction. Same result. This time
his head hit the side of the tent. He turned himself a little to
the right and pushed again. More tent. Again he turned to the
right. Again, the tent.

I must find the opening, he thought.

But the next advance resulted in another sharp blow to the
head.

Fucking hell, he thought. I may never get out.

After what seemed an eternity of turning and pushing, Dupie
still had not succeeded. He lay exhausted. He had kicked over the
table beside his bed, but it hadn’t made enough noise to wake the
staff. He lay on the floor, panting, despondent. He might have to
wait for morning.

Then, in the distance, he heard the sound of an outboard
motor.

The bastards, he thought. They’ve taken the boat. He ached all
over, and the broken tooth throbbed.

Suddenly he heard Enoch’s voice.

“Dupie! Dupie! You awake?”

Dupie made as much noise as he could through the gag. He saw a
light outside the tent. Moments later the flap zipped open, and the
beam of Enoch’s flashlight caught Dupie first and then Salome.

“Shit!” Pulling a pocketknife from his trousers, Enoch dropped
to his knees and cut Dupie’s bonds. Dupie pulled the tape off his
mouth and spat the rag out, wincing in agony as the cold air blew
across the broken tooth.

“Fucking shit,” he said. “The bastards!” He grabbed Enoch’s
knife and freed Salome.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did they…”

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “They didn’t touch me.” She felt far
away, watching from the distance.

“Thank God!” He helped her to her feet and wrapped her in his
arms. She flung her arms around him and started sobbing.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “We’re both alive, and they’ve
gone. I heard the motorboat.”

“Boat woke me,” Enoch said. “Something was wrong. Something’s
always wrong!” He cursed in his home language. “Was it the two
men?”

Dupie nodded. “The bastards. They were after Tinubu’s briefcase.
I’d better call the police.” He took Salome’s hand, leading her to
the dining area.

“Sit down,” he said gently. “Enoch will get you a Scotch. Enoch,
then go and boil some water. A cup of coffee will go down well.
I’ll be back in a minute.” Salome grabbed for him, but he was
already on his way. At the office tent he grabbed the Lee-Enfield
rifle and slid a cartridge into the breech. Then he rummaged on his
desk for his cell phone. When he found it, he dialed the Kasane
police station. While waiting, he dug out his old service revolver,
hidden at the back of a filing cabinet drawer.

“Kasane police station? This is Dupie du Pisanie at Jackalberry
Camp – that’s where the murders took place last week. We’ve just
been attacked by two men connected to the murders. They may still
be nearby.” But Dupie was sure they had left with the boat. Why
would he be alive if they had wanted to stay? “When can you get
here?”

The policeman explained they would not be able to get to
Jackal-berry Camp before morning. It was already nearly midnight,
and it would take hours before anyone would be ready to leave. But
he promised to contact the station commander.

“You’ve got to come now!” Dupie yelled. “They may still be here.
They could kill us!”

“I’ll call you back,” the policeman said and hung up.

Dupie cursed. Then he stuffed the phone into his pocket and
returned to the dining area, firearms in hand.

He shoved the handgun to Enoch. “Look after Salome while I check
on the boat.” Dupie walked quietly behind the guests’ tents, over
the ridge to the jetty. In the dim moonlight, he could see that the
boat was gone.

Then he went to where the
mokoros
were usually moored.
There was nothing there. He shone Enoch’s flashlight out to the
lagoon, and saw the small boats floating, ghost-craft on the
glass-still water. He turned back to the dining area.

“All the boats are gone,” he told Enoch and Salome. He called
Kasane police station again, telling the constable they had no
boats, that they were stranded.

The policeman said he would alert all police on the Namibian
border, but that the police would only get to the camp in the
morning.

“The police can only get here sometime tomorrow,” Dupie said
after hanging up. “There’s nothing we can do but wait. I’m sure
they’ve gone, but we can’t take a chance. Enoch, you face that way.
Check the revolver’s loaded. Salome, you face the kitchen. If you
see anything, shout, and I’ll shoot the bastards.”

As the three settled down to spend the night peering tensely
into the darkness, they heard the drone of a small plane in the
distance.

♦

Faint streaks in the easterly sky found the three still huddled
together. Exhausted from tension and lack of sleep, they had
struggled to stay awake, taking turns to walk around and stretch.
Fear and mutual cajoling had spurred them.

Suddenly Dupie’s phone rang, causing all three to jump.

“Shit,” cursed Dupie, fumbling for the phone.

“This is Du Pisanie,” he whispered. The other two strained to
hear.

Dupie related what had happened the night before. Then he
listened carefully to the caller.

After hanging up, he said, “That was Detective Mooka – the tall
one. He’ll be here as soon as he can, but he’s not sure he can get
a plane. He may have to drive. Anyway it’s too late. That plane we
heard last night must’ve been them. No one else would fly a light
plane in the middle of the night. It looks as though they’ve got
clean away.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

O
n Saturday afternoon
after lunch, Kubu was sitting on his veranda, cup of tea in hand.
Inevitably, his relaxed mood was interrupted by the telephone.

“Kubu,” Joy called from inside the house. “It’s for you.
Tatwa.”

Kubu pulled himself from his seat and walked to the phone.
Tatwa’s found out something about the murders, he thought.

“Kubu, we’ve got a problem,” said Tatwa, ignoring Kubu’s
greeting. “I’m at Jackalberry Camp. It’s been attacked again.”

“What do you mean, attacked again?” Kubu interjected.

“Well, last night two guests attacked Salome McGlashan and Dupie
du Pisanie. They’re alive but Du Pisanie was quite badly assaulted.
Happened about midnight, and they were tied and gagged. Then the
intruders stole the camp’s motorboat for their getaway. That woke
Enoch Kokorwe, who found them tied up in Du Pisanie’s tent.” He
paused for a moment, “Apparently they wanted to know what had
happened to Zondo and where Tinubu’s briefcase was.”

“Good heavens! Does Du Pisanie know who they were?”

“He’s got their registration papers and so on, but they seem to
be false, as you would expect. One was white, said he was from
Spain; the other a black from South Africa. Threatened to kill both
of them. McGlashan’s very scared, as you can imagine. I’ve arranged
to leave a couple of constables here for a few days.”

“What have you learned so far?” Kubu asked.

“Not much. No one on the island heard a thing. The police found
mokoros
from the camp floating on the river. They’ve all
been returned to the camp. They also found the camp’s Land Rover at
the airstrip. They’d taken the keys from the office. And Dupie and
Enoch both say they heard a small plane taking off not long after
the attackers left. We’ve got plenty of fingerprints, to be
processed as soon as I get back to Kasane. We’ve alerted all the
border posts and so on, but we’ll draw a blank, I’m sure. And, of
course, Civil Aviation hasn’t any flight plans on file for any
plane going to the airstrip.”

“Who picked them up from the airstrip when they arrived?”

“Enoch,” Tatwa replied. “But unfortunately he didn’t note the
registration. I would have thought after the murders that would be
an obvious thing to do.”

“Well, this seems to support the Zondo theory for the murders,
doesn’t it?” Kubu said. “We’ll have to spread our net even further
to find him. And now we may have a motive. It sounds like a drug
swap, and Zondo got greedy. How’re the guests taking it?”

“They’re panicked and want to leave immediately. I’ve spoken to
them all and can’t see any benefit from keeping them. I’ve told
them they’re free to leave. Dupie isn’t happy about it because they
were booked in for several more nights.”

“And the other staff?”

“The crazy cook says he didn’t hear anything at all. Not
surprising with that noisy bird in his tent. Beauty and Solomon
weren’t on the island. McGlashan is sleeping now. Du Pisanie is
quite badly beaten up, but he refuses to go to Kasane for
treatment. Says he’ll take care of his broken tooth when he can.
The rest will heal itself.”

After hanging up, Kubu wandered back to the veranda, collapsing
into his favorite chair. Joy offered him a fresh cup of tea, and he
nodded distractedly. So some other people – not very nice people –
had missed Ishmael Zondo. Or perhaps they only missed the contents
of Tinubu’s briefcase. He wondered what their next move would
be.

♦

Madrid barely said a word from the time they had taken the
motor-boat to the time he landed the old Cessna 172 on the dirt
strip on a farm near Hwange in western Zimbabwe. As soon as he
touched down, the hurricane lamps marking the runway were
extinguished, and everything was again dark. Thank God for portable
GPS, he thought. It would be impossible to find this place at night
without it.

Madrid was angry, his cold mind sifting through options to
recoup his money. He had already invested significant time in this
project. Hours spent planning with Joseph Chikosi, the leader of
this ragtag crew, and Peter Jabulani – Ishmael Zondo, as he had
called himself at the camp; days on scouting missions; weeks on the
farm, training the men.

People, he thought bitterly. They’re all the same. Leave them on
their own with a lot of money, and they can’t resist the
temptation.

He walked to the farmhouse. Chikosi was standing at the door,
waiting for him.

“Well? What did you find out?” Chikosi’s voice was tense.

Madrid shrugged. “Not much.”

“What do you think happened?”

“What do I think? I think your loyal lieutenant double-crossed
you. I think your perfect Mr. Jabulani took off with my money.
Probably the other stuff too. Even the Pope would be tempted! But
you sent him alone.”

“Are you sure it’s all gone?”

“The manager at the camp said the police found a briefcase –
Tinubu’s briefcase. Didn’t know what was in it, but said it looked
heavy. I know who has it. Maybe they’d already switched, maybe
not.”

“What are you going to do?” Chikosi asked after a few
moments.

“I’m going to find out if the manager was telling the truth,”
Madrid replied.

“And the mission?”

“That’s your problem! Right now I couldn’t care less. I want to
be paid for what I’ve already done. You better start looking for
ways of raising the money. I’ve spent a lot on this already, and
lots of people are waiting to be paid. What’re you going to give us
instead? More worthless promises? You better pray I find what I’m
looking for in Gaborone.”

Chikosi slumped against the door. “I can’t believe it. I’d have
trusted Jabulani with my life.”

Madrid sneered. “Your life’s not worth half a million dollars.
Know what? I don’t think your life’s worth even one dollar right
now.” With that he shoved Joseph Chikosi out of his way and stalked
into the house.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

S
unday was family day
in the Bengu household. Kubu and Joy made a point of visiting his
parents every Sunday after church. This Sunday Kubu and Joy decided
to bring the lunch so his mother could have a relaxed day. Of
course, his father never cooked. He spent his time tending a small
garden of vegetables and medicinal herbs at the back of the
house.

Joy had a great love for her in-laws, and they treated her as a
daughter. When Joy was fifteen, her mother died of tuberculosis,
leaving her thirty-five-year-old husband to care for Joy, her
brother, Sampson, and sister, Pleasant. In typical African fashion,
he was supported by his and his wife’s families, who absorbed the
children into their lives and homes. But five years later, he
suffered a massive heart attack and died within a few days. Sampson
was then twenty-one, Joy twenty, and Pleasant eighteen. The
children sold their father’s general dealer’s shop, and so had a
little money for the future.

Joy and Pleasant took a secretarial course and decided to move
to the capital, Gaborone, where there was more work and a larger
pool of single men. Joy found a job as a clerk with the police
department, while Pleasant joined a travel agency, where she soon
upgraded her qualifications to become an agent rather than a
secretary. Sampson stayed in Francistown and went to work for the
government, in the Ministry of Lands and Housing.

Kubu’s mother was overjoyed when he and Joy married. She had
almost given up hope of her large, hard-working son ever finding a
wife. Amantle liked Joy immediately and embraced her as one of the
family. Even the reserved Wilmon emerged from his shell, showing
her great affection.