The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (27 page)

There was a moment of tense silence. “Look, Bengu, I don’t want
to play silly games. But I’ll add a bonus to the deal. If it all
goes smoothly, no hitches, I won’t kill your wife. And I was
looking forward to that since she was so uncooperative.”

Kubu folded at once. “I’ll give you the briefcase.”

“The briefcase and the tote.”

“I only have the briefcase.”

“What’s in it?”

Kubu bluffed. “Look, you know perfectly well what I’ve got. I’ll
give it to you. You give me Pleasant and leave us alone. That’s the
end of it.”

There was silence for a long heartbeat, then the voice said,
“Take it to the Gaborone Sun at exactly eight this evening. When
you turn into the parking lot, there’s a row of carports on your
right. Drive to the last one. There’s a dumpster there. Put the
briefcase in it. Don’t stop. Drive straight on. And no stakeouts or
other nonsense. It’ll be very easy to get to your wife,
Kubu
. At her sister’s funeral, for example.” Kubu wanted to
insist on speaking to Pleasant, but the line went dead. It struck
him that they would have to catch all the members of this gang if
his family was ever to be safe again.

♦

At 7:30 p.m., two men came out of the house, climbed into the
bottle-green Hyundai, and drove off. It was clear they were heading
for the Sun. Fifteen minutes later Amy hammered on the door of
number 17 Ganzi Street, the sad house with peeling paint. The man
who answered was broad, tall, and bearded, matching Rachel’s
description. His eyes fixed on Amy’s protruding breasts and obvious
nipples. “What the hell do you want?”

“Your friends sent me. They’re at Happiness House. They said you
couldn’t leave here. But I do house calls.” She smiled and rubbed
her leg against his.

“Bastards! They were supposed to be going to meet someone!
Someone at Happiness House it turns out.” He shook his head. “Look,
darling, you’re lovely but I’m busy. Some other time, eh?”

Amy did not have much time. She pulled down one side of the top
and let Beardy have a good look. “Come on, you can’t be that busy.
A quickie. Whatever you want. It’s paid for already.” She gave him
an appraising look. “Not that you’d have to pay anyway, lover-boy.”
She considered a wink but did not want to overplay her hand.

He hesitated. “All right. Come on then.”

“Anyone else here, darling? I’m shy, you know.”

He laughed. “No just us. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Amy followed him to the bedroom, alert for the unexpected. He
pulled off his shirt, took a heavy automatic out of his pocket, and
put it on top of the wardrobe out of her reach. Then he dropped his
pants and pulled off his shoes. He was down to slightly grayed
briefs. What was happening inside them made it clear that Love
Lotion would not be required.

“Get your dress off,” he said. Obviously foreplay was not his
strong suit. Instead he found himself looking at a small caliber
pistol, which had a deflating effect on his ego, as well as the
contents of the briefs.

“What the fuck?” He started to raise his hands in pretended
surrender, and then with a roar he rushed the diminutive
policewoman. With clinical precision, she shot him in the fleshy
part of each thigh.

♦

When he heard the gunshots, Kubu was out of the car and moving
toward the house faster than his colleagues would have believed
possible. But the Special Support Group team in camouflage clothing
and flak jackets was already in the building. Following training
that they had seldom needed, they searched the house rapidly,
securing it. Beardy received no quarter; he was handcuffed before
anyone showed interest in his wounds. Then the paramedic checked
that he was not bleeding to death from a severed artery. Amy
observed his grimaces and heard his bellows of pain with
satisfaction. He would not be kidnapping a policeman’s family again
in a hurry.

With unerring instinct, Kubu headed to the back of the house.
“Pleasant!” he yelled. “It’s Kubu! We’re in control. Where are
you?” The response came from behind the door of a room to the
right.

Pleasant, showing her good sense, shouted, “I’m here! I’m alone!
I’m all right!”

“Break it down,” Kubu instructed one of the uniformed men, who
tried a powerful kick. The door shuddered but held, the only solid
item in the rickety house. The man tried again with similar
results.

Kubu pushed the man aside. “I’ll do it myself.”

Giving himself a short run and summoning value from every
calorie he had ever enjoyed, he threw his bulk against the door.
The lock ripped out, and he landed in a heap. But moments later he
was holding Pleasant in his arms and enjoying the warm feeling of
rescuing the damsel in distress. The next morning he would be
enjoying the warm feeling of a variety of bruises and abrasions,
but that was tomorrow.

Kubu found Joy waiting impatiently with Mabaku in the street.
She rushed to Pleasant and hugged her. Both started to cry.

“I told her to stay in the car but she wouldn’t listen. For that
matter I told you to stay in the car,” the director commented.
“I’ve radioed Edison at the Sun. He knows we have Pleasant and have
secured the house. He’ll pick up the Hyundai as soon as it appears.
We’ve got the bastards, Kubu!” His enthusiastic, triumphal punch
hit Kubu on his door-bashing shoulder. Mabaku did not notice the
wince. A flash of white teeth lit up his face. “They’re about to
become guests at the president’s pleasure. And for a very long
time!”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

S
hortly after 9:00
p.m., a bottle-green Hyundai slunk into the parking lot of the
Gaborone Sun. Well-heeled patrons were leaving, those who had come
for dinner or drinks with business colleagues. The night was still
young for the blackjack and roulette enthusiasts. This was where
Botswana’s success was most ostentatiously evident: designer
clothes, designer cars, designer gambling losses. The Hyundai made
its way through the revelers to the last carport. The driver pulled
over, double parking in front of the dumpster that occupied the
last space. He was to wait one minute, phone a cell phone number,
walk casually to the dumpster, and describe it. Next he was to
light a cigarette, smoke it, and throw the stub into the bin.

It did not take that long. The moment he got out of the car, he
found himself surrounded by police holding a variety of
intimidating weapons. The driver, scared witless, put up no
resistance. The cell phone was knocked out of his hand.

By the time Edison arrived from the car where he had been
waiting, the suspect was secured and the area cordoned off. Edison
looked at the scrawny youth with surprise rapidly deteriorating to
dismay.

“Where are the others?” he asked in Setswana. He grabbed the
youth by his T–shirt and yelled, “Where are the others? Tell
me!”

The driver looked at him speechless, bewildered.

“What’s this shit? I did nothing!” he said, trying to talk up
some courage. Edison snarled at him and let him fall heavily. He
turned to the policemen.

“This foul-mouthed punk isn’t the right man. Where the hell are
the two men who set out from Tlokweng this evening? They’re
Zimbabweans and probably don’t even speak Setswana!”

“He was in the car,” said the uniformed man indicating the youth
with his handgun. “Must be him!”

Edison gave him a withering look and turned back to the
teenager. “What’s your name?”

“Kali Jameng.”

“Tell me everything you know. At once. If you hesitate or leave
something out, I will immediately charge you with kidnapping and
murder. I’ll get a judge tonight, and you will be hanged tomorrow!
You better give us the names of your parents.” This piece of
complete nonsense was said so matter-of-factly that even the
constables wondered if the judge might already be on his way from
Lobatse.

“I know nothing,” said Kali. “I just borrowed the car and…”

Edison interrupted. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I
forget how stupid you are. Let me spell it out for you. People have
been murdered. A senior police officer’s wife and sister-in-law
have been kidnapped and held for ransom.” He paused. “Perhaps you
need some help to refresh your memory.” He turned to one of the
uniformed police. “Constable, get on the radio to headquarters.
Tell them to get the interrogation room set up, the electrical
stuff, crocodile clips for the testicles. The works. We need
answers at once!”

The constable had no idea what Edison was talking about, but
caught on quickly, rushed to his car, and pretended to be on the
radio. “We need big crocodile clips!” he shouted at the top of his
voice.

The youth started gabbling in an unsteady voice. He denied
everything. He knew nothing about kidnappings. The problem was no
longer to get him to talk, but to get him to stick to the point. He
confessed to all sorts of misdemeanors in which Edison had no
interest. Soon he lost patience. “I don’t care about any of that.
Tell me how you got the car.”

“Rra, I was watching a man at the Nando’s takeout. It’s a good
place to work. Busy and crowded. He seemed very nervous, scared,
not concentrating. I had his wallet in a second. He didn’t feel a
thing!” This was said with a note of pride, which Edison killed
with a ferocious snarl.

“Yes, well the problem was that he was with another man, who
caught me. They weren’t Batswana. Maybe they were Zimbabwe-ans.”
Kali shook his head. What was the country coming to with all these
foreigners causing trouble? “I thought they would be angry, beat me
up, call the police. But they pulled me aside. Spoke to me nicely.”
He gave Edison an accusatory look. “They were both upset about
something. Something bad. They said they’d give us five hundred
pula. I just had to wait until half past eight and drive through
the parking lot at the Gaborone Sun and phone them. Nothing wrong
with that.” His hint of spunk wilted under Edison’s glare.

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“My friend Leonard was there. They caught him too.”

“You didn’t think it was strange to be paid that much money? Why
didn’t you just steal the car?”

“It wasn’t worth very much,” said the boy sullenly. “And they
kept Leonard.”

“What did you have to do?”

“Drive through the parking lot, stop at the end of the carports,
phone them, smoke a cigarette, and come back. For five hundred
pula!”

“Nothing else? You’re absolutely sure.”

“Nothing!”

Edison called to the police car, “Constable, is the equipment
ready?”

“Nothing! I swear!”

Edison sighed. The boy was too gullible to be lying, the story
too unbelievable to be invented. He called the constable over. “The
Nando’s is our best chance. Pick up this Leonard fellow. Try to
find the Zimbabweans. They may still be waiting for him there.”

They went in convoy, leaving the curious glitterati to their
late-night entertainments. As they drove, Edison reported to Mabaku
what had happened. The director was furious. It seemed that his
celebration had been premature.

“Yes, go ahead,” he said sourly. “But they’ll have left as soon
as the cell phone call cut off. You won’t find them.”

And they did not. They found Leonard drunk and happy with two
hundred pula in his pocket. But the two Zimbabweans were gone. They
had left by minibus taxi to the border at Tlokweng. Just minutes
before Mabaku alerted the border officials, they slipped across the
border into South Africa. From there they would make their careful
way back to Zimbabwe.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

RUNG BY RUNG

We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung…

—
RUDYARD KIPLING,
‘GENTLEMEN-RANKERS’

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

M
abaku assembled his
core team. He had told them to meet by 7:30 a.m., and no one dared
be late. Kubu was slouched at one end, brooding over a cup of
coffee, with a fatcake for comfort. He had already spoken to his
father about the kidnapping because he knew it would be all over
the press and TV, and they would hear about it from neighbors. He
had assured Wilmon that both Joy and Pleasant were fine. He would
tell them all the details at their next visit. They had been upset,
but he had calmed them down.

Edison was sitting next to Kubu, morosely sipping black tea. Ian
was cheerful as always, but wishing he was painting, sleeping, or
even examining an interesting cadaver, rather than being at this
glum early-morning meeting. Zanele Dlamini was there representing
Forensics, although the only thing her group had done was check
Tinubu’s briefcase for drugs. The rest of the forensic work had
been done in Kasane and Maun. But she provided beauty and brains,
and the men were glad for both. Joshua Bembo, the South African
Police liaison, had settled for a glass of water and was fidgeting
with his pen. The last to arrive, looking tired, was Tatwa who had
flown from Maun the day before. He was dressed formally with a
jacket and tie; his St. Louis cap rested on the table.

Mabaku was already on his second cup of strong black coffee. His
stomach had hoped for something more substantial for breakfast, and
he felt a twinge of heartburn. But the bile was in his voice. He
was angry.

“Last night’s operation was a disaster! In fact this whole case
is a total mess.” No one said anything. “Kubu was completely out of
it yesterday.” He winced from the indigestion, and then added more
kindly, “That was understandable, of course. How are Joy and
Pleasant this morning?”

Kubu pulled himself up in his chair. “They’re okay. Treating it
as a big adventure and telling all their friends. It’ll hit them
later. They’re both at my house, and Constable Mashu is keeping an
eye on them. Both insisted I make the meeting this morning. But I
admit I’m worried about them.”