The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (50 page)

Mabaku decided to let the matter drop. “Let me see if I have
this fantastic story straight. Tinubu was a courier taking money to
overthrow the government of Zimbabwe. And it’s certainly a
government most people would like to see changed. This Madrid
character is the fix-it man, and the money’s destined for him and
his men. Dupie steals it, Kubu sticks his neck out, and both of
them are on the receiving end of Madrid’s anger. Beardy – one of
the mercenaries – gets caught, but the others get away.

“Let’s summarize the evidence for this hypothetical plot to
assassinate the president of Zimbabwe.” He counted on his fingers.
“One, Kubu doesn’t see Tinubu as a smuggler – or at least not a
drug smuggler – because he’s a nice person, likes kids. Two, Tinubu
took a newspaper outlining the itinerary for the various visiting
presidents’ trips with him to Jackalberry. Three, he had deep ties
to the country from the war days, and he was involved with a
support group for Zimbabwean refugees in Gaborone. That could’ve
been the hippo’s ears of his political involvement, with a lot of
undercover stuff below the surface of the water. Four, Beardy was
shocked by the lie that all his comrades are being held by the
Zimbabwe police – and particularly Madrid who he’s never admitted
knowing. Five, he asked for treatment as a
prisoner of war
.”
He had to start on the fingers of his other hand. “And six, Madrid
has the resources and the balls to pull off the kidnapping of a
policeman’s family. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a drug
ring. Is that about it?”

Kubu nodded. Mabaku had summed it up very well. Mabaku turned
back to Edison.

“What’s your take on this?” Edison squirmed in his chair. He had
nothing to go on but his gut feeling. But Kubu was right,
usually.

“I think Kubu may be right,” he said at last.

Mabaku walked to the window and gazed out at Kgale Hill.

“We’re talking about two days from now. We can’t afford to be
wrong about this. Frankly, I think the evidence is very tenuous.
The only thing that jolts me is Beardy claiming status as a
prisoner of war.” He waited, but no one commented. He ground his
teeth, ignored a twinge from his stomach, and headed for the
telephone.

“I can’t afford to ignore this, no matter how remote the chance
of its being true. I need to talk to the commissioner right now. In
private.” Kubu and Edison got up and left Mabaku holding the time
bomb they had passed to him.

Mabaku knew how to get the commissioner’s attention quickly, and
fifteen minutes later he had outlined the whole story.

The commissioner was silent for what seemed like an age. “This
man who calls himself Madrid. Is that his real name?”

“I have no idea, Commissioner. It’s the only name we have heard
used.”

“Ah. And it was used in the context of the attack on the tourist
camp you mentioned? Nowhere else?” Mabaku admitted this was so.
“Ah. And apart from what we might charitably call an informed hunch
from your assistant superintendent, the only evidence we have to
connect the man you have in custody with this hypothetical plot is
the remark that he wants to be treated as a prisoner of war?
Completely ridiculous! The Republic of Botswana is not at war, and,
in its entire history has not been at war, with any country.”

“He misused the term, but it was clear what he meant, I should
think.”

“Ah. And what is that?”

“That he is fighting in an army. Against a country.”

“But not this country. Don’t you think he might rather ask for
political asylum? No, I think we are setting too much store by the
ravings of a dangerous criminal who’s in custody for kidnapping a
policeman’s sister-in-law. The same policeman who has now come up
with the idea of this extraordinary plot.”

“Nevertheless, Commissioner, we have a situation here.”

“Ah, yes. A situation. Mabaku, I recognize your commitment. I
have repeatedly emphasized the importance of the African Union
meeting going smoothly, without embarrassment or hitches. You have
taken that to heart most commendably. What I’m going to tell you
now is absolutely confidential. Keep it strictly to yourself. We
have been assured by all parties that the president of Zimbabwe
will not be in danger while he is in Botswana. Do you understand
me?
By all parties
.”

Mabaku thought he understood.

“However, I will deploy additional men and demand additional
vigilance. We can’t afford to be complacent.”

This sounded more promising. “Should we see what we can shake
out of the bearded Khumalo then?”

“Why not? He’s the only connection with the kidnappers. We need
to tie that up as quickly as possible. But you do it yourself,
Mabaku. Keep Bengu out of it. He’s too personally involved. I
would’ve thought that was obvious to you anyway.”

Mabaku agreed, accepting the implied rebuke, and promised to
handle the matter himself.

The commissioner continued, “Report anything you learn directly
to me. And for God’s sake, keep any hint of this out of the
newspapers. Is that absolutely clear, Director Mabaku?”

“Yes, Commissioner.”

“Well, then have a good evening, Mabaku. It’s very encouraging
to know I have your full support. Goodnight.”

Mabaku put down the phone and wiped his forehead with a
handkerchief. He was sweating, although it wasn’t really hot. Must
be the operation, he thought. Marie was right as usual, I should’ve
stayed at home for a few more days.

♦

Kubu fidgeted while waiting for the director. Joy would be home
by now and probably had news she wanted to share with him.
Hopefully not bad news. When Mabaku called them back, he hoped the
matter would be resolved quickly, and he was not disappointed.

Mabaku leaned back and folded his arms. “I fully apprised the
commissioner. He says we don’t have enough evidence to take the
matter further.”

Kubu was not surprised. “Yes, I thought he might say that. Don’t
rock the boat.” The phrase made him think of poor Tatwa in the
river. “Just give us a few more hours with Beardy and authorize a
deal for him. We’ll get a full confession in exchange for a light
sentence.” He looked at the director’s resolute expression. “A few
hours tomorrow, that is,” he added, remembering Joy.

Mabaku shook his head. “The commissioner’s instructions in this
matter are absolutely clear. I’m to follow up with Beardy
personally.” He held up his hand as Kubu started to protest. “I’ll
pursue your idea. Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of it.
Tomorrow if I can. You’re to keep out of it, though. Is that
clear?”

Kubu nodded, having no option but to accept.

“Now,” said Mabaku more kindly. “You need to get home to Joy.
Good evening, Kubu, Edison.”

Edison, who had been fairly confused all along, smiled, nodded,
and left. Kubu wanted to suggest how to approach Beardy, how to
follow up. But he realized the issue was completely out of his
hands now. So be it.

“Good evening, Director Mabaku,” he said. “I’ll see you in the
morning.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

E
noch bashed through
the buffalo grass, his boots sinking into the mud of the Linyanti
marsh. His backpack was comfortable now with the newspaper and
rocks jettisoned. It contained only minimal clothes, an old
sleeping bag, food, a water bottle, a waterproof wallet stuffed
with various currencies, and some equipment. Midges buzzed around
him as he walked, biting when they could. He ignored them. He was
used to these conditions and, despite the discomfort, he was happy.
He felt free. Perhaps for the first time in thirty years.

His intention had been to head much farther into the flood plain
and land on the Botswana side. There were people there who knew
him, people he could trust, but there were far more who did not
know him and who were thus even more trustworthy. But when the boat
ran out of fuel, he was too close to the areas that the Defense
Force patrolled. So he had chosen the other shore. In any case,
Namibia would lose interest in finding him long before Botswana
did.

He smiled, recalling the tall, thin detective churning up the
water and screaming his head off, while the big one freaked on
land, too fat to do anything useful.

But they’d had the last laugh. He was positive the boat had been
fueled up; someone had deliberately emptied the tank. The spotter
plane had come much sooner than he had expected, too; he had been
forced to spend the day huddled in a thicket like a lion cub
secreted from hyenas. And the night had been spent uncomfortably in
a tree, out of reach of predators. A helicopter had been active
during this morning, but had taken itself off after a few hours,
probably to scan the Botswana side. Now he needed the perfect
camouflage, a small village out of contact with the world.
Somewhere safe to rest and plan his next move.

He checked his cell phone; he wanted to be out of range. A
village with reception would have a communal phone and thus contact
with the outside world. At first there was no signal, but suddenly
it strengthened and a Namibian network offered its services. He
cursed, and headed on.

An hour later he saw smoke spiraling above the tall grass. It
was some way off and back toward the watercourse. It might indicate
a fishing village. He had little option now, the day was getting
old, and soon he would have to find a place to spend the night.
Building a fire was out of the question, so his best bet was to
head for the smoke. Even if it turned out to be poachers, he could
join them for the night. He had money to pay his way. And he had
Dupie’s revolver, only one shot fired, as a last resort.

He had to detour as he came to waterlogged areas where the flood
had spread into the marsh. He was beginning to fear he would not
make it before dark, when he came to a ridge running parallel to
the game track he had been following. It was worth the short climb
to get a view of where he was.

From the top he could see that the land fell away steeply to the
flood plain, which was now reclaimed by the Linyanti. A group of
temporary huts formed a horseshoe around a small bay. There were
mokoros
and drying nets. And in the valley there would be no
cell phone reception. It was perfect. But there was a problem. A
large group of elephants had taken the middle ground between him
and the village. They were decimating the foliage of the trees
scattered on the lower hillside above the waterlogged plains. It
was a breeding herd with females and calves. The villagers were
making a big fuss and the damp grass fire causing all the smoke was
probably to keep the elephants at bay. Enoch sighed. He was tired
and hungry, and he wanted a place to sleep where he did not have to
worry about hyenas and lions. If he tried to outflank the herd, it
would be a long way around, and it might even leave him stranded in
the dark. He put his hand to his breast feeling for the Watching
Eye that had hung around his neck, the Eye that matched Dupie’s.
But Dupie’s Eye was in a thousand pieces, and he had thrown his own
into the Linyanti. That time was past. He slung his pack over his
shoulders and headed down the hill toward the village.

At first it seemed that the elephants would ignore him. He had
to pass through the herd, but he kept as far as possible from any
individual, and particularly from the females with young. He made
no effort to be quiet, feeling it was better not to behave as a
stalker. One or two lifted their trunks to smell the air, flapped
their ears threateningly, and pawed the ground, but he passed by,
and they let him go. He thought he was through the herd, home
free.

Suddenly he came upon a young female with a younger calf, who
had lagged behind the herd to enjoy the green papyrus and the sweet
river water. They saw each other at almost the same moment, and the
cow panicked. She gave a shrill, high-pitched trumpet and charged,
determined to eliminate this threat to her youngster. The baby
trumpeted too, impressed by the noise he had created but unsure
what the fuss was about. Luckily, Enoch was on a fairly steep part
of the ridge, and there was a huge baobab to his left. He had time
to duck behind it before the female thundered over the spot he had
been occupying seconds before. She turned to find him, knowing
exactly where he was, but her calf, still producing shrill
imitations of his mother, was right behind her. The threat was no
longer between them and the herd. She trumpeted again, turned
surprisingly quickly, and started up the hill at a pace so fast
that her baby could barely keep up. In seconds they were gone.

Enoch waited a few minutes while his heart rate returned to
normal and his muscles relaxed. He had been set to leap into the
baobab, one tree in which he would be safe from the most determined
elephant, but only if he had made the first branch ten feet above
his head. It seemed that Eye or no Eye, his luck had held.

Calm now, he made his way down the hill to the village. They
were not Batswana, but understood Setswana. He told them he was
surveying for a mining company and showed them his GPS. He asked if
he could use his cell phone. At first they did not understand, but
when he showed it to them, they laughed loudly and shook their
heads. They wanted to know how he had managed to get around the
elephants. He told them he had walked through the herd. It was all
in a day’s work. He became an instant celebrity.

Two women were cooking fresh fish, wrapped in aromatic leaves,
over open coals from the fire, while another stirred a pot of the
ubiquitous
mielie
meal for
pappa
. The men invited him
to join them, and he accepted graciously, but insisted that he pay
his way. He had pula, not Namibian dollars, but that was fine.

“The white men have lots of cash,” he explained, and they nodded
in sage acceptance. They had calabashes of beer and enjoyed his
company the better for the money. The evening was fine, and Enoch
relaxed for the first time in days, maybe in years. When the meal
was over and all the beer was gone, he shared a hut with a single
man in the group and slept the sleep of the exhausted.