75
Gatekeeper Wu had been told very clearly where his duties lay. At half-past ten on Sunday morning, when the delivery van had first pulled up by the barricade at the entrance to Hon Ka Mansions, the two men inside had assured him that they knew precisely where he, his wife and three small children lived. They’d made it plain that not only his life but those of his family were at stake. If he wished to live, he would turn his eyes from anyone who came in or out of the development over the next ninety minutes. If he was approached by any policemen, he should play dumb and claim not to remember anything about any of the cars or people who’d gone past his post. It was made very clear that the boss for whom the men worked had contacts within the police who would tell him in an instant if Wu had told them anything of interest. On the other hand, his discretion would be much appreciated and his family would be greatly rewarded.
Wu had got the message.
The first police car had arrived shortly after midday. The officers inside told Wu they were responding to a report of gunfire. Wu assured them, truthfully, that he had heard none. One of the cops had shrugged and told him he didn’t expect there was any reason to be concerned. The woman who had reported it said she and her husband had waited for more than half an hour before calling the police because they were arguing about what the sound had been.
It took the two cops almost ten minutes to determine that the noise had come from the Gushungo entrance and another five to decide they should force their way into the house. Twenty seconds later, they discovered the two bodies of the maids in the hallway, followed by the Gushungos and their four bodyguards in the living room.
The cops reported back to their station. The chief inspector, who was the senior duty officer, took the instant decision that he did not wish to be in any way responsible for the investigation of a head of state’s violent death on Hong Kong soil. He got straight on to the Hong Kong Police Force’s headquarters, where a chief superintendent went straight to the top, disturbing the Commissioner of Police, who was standing over a tricky putt on the fourth hole of the Ocean Nine course at the Clearwater Bay Golf and Country Club.
By happy chance, the commissioner’s playing partner was the Secretary for Security, a member of the Executive Council that assisted the Chief Executive of Hong Kong in governing the territory. The two men immediately decided that every available police resource would be devoted to investigating the deaths at Hon Ka Mansions. They also agreed that it would be most unwise to alarm the public, or jeopardize the international reputation of Hong Kong, by making any statement whatsoever until the perpetrators responsible had been identified and, if possible, apprehended.
Around two in the afternoon, the first detectives came to interview Gatekeeper Wu. Like Zheng’s men, they told him not to tell anyone about what he had seen if he knew what was good for him.
To any Chinese, a threat from a government official is at least as terrifying, if not more so, than one from a gangster. No gangster, after all, has killed even a tiny fraction of the Chinese citizens sacrificed by their own state over the past sixty-odd years. That night, Wu ordered his wife to gather together the family’s pitiful quantity of possessions. On Monday morning they were getting on a train and heading back to their old fishing village, two hundred miles away on the coast of Guangdong province. The family Wu had had enough of Hong Kong.
76
Carver’s flight got into Johannesburg at quarter-past seven on Monday morning. As soon as he’d made it through immigration and customs he sat down in an airport café with a double espresso and his iPhone. Then he logged on to the BBC news pages and looked for headlines about Malemba.
It didn’t take long for his worst fears to be confirmed. The whole Gushungo operation had been blown and Tshonga’s supposedly peaceful takeover had collapsed in a swift series of massacres. Meanwhile, there were rumours of a simultaneous attack on President Gushungo and his wife at their home in Hong Kong. The Hong Kong authorities were remaining tight-lipped, but neither the President nor his wife had been seen in more than twenty-four hours and although a local vicar reported that he had been told that they were suffering from a stomach-bug, some Hong Kong bloggers were suggesting that they were dead and that local authorities were engaged in a massive cover-up. Carver liked the sound of that. The more the truth was glossed over, the less chance there was that anything would ever be traced to him.
Malemba itself was now under the control of a self-proclaimed Committee of National Security, a group of senior military officers who had decreed a state of emergency pending the reestablishment of civilian government. The committee members, like the Hong Kong authorities, refused to comment on stories that Henderson Gushungo was dead. They preferred to focus on Patrick Tshonga, who was described as a traitor, an anarchist and a threat to peace. He was being hunted without mercy, one general stated, and would soon be cornered like a rat. In the meantime, a press conference was being scheduled for the following morning, Tuesday, at which time the people would get a chance to hear the committee’s plans for the country.
The timing seemed about right, Carver thought. If Mabeki had flown direct to Sindele, he would have arrived at roughly the same time as Carver got to Johannesburg. He’d need a day to get his feet under the table, prepare the various bribes, threats and blackmails with which he’d bend everyone to his will, and then appoint whichever stooges would nominally run the country. He’d also have to decide what to do with Zalika. Assuming she was still alive.
In any case, Carver now had his deadline. His best, maybe only chance of killing Mabeki and rescuing Zalika was to do it before Mabeki had the chance to assemble and announce his new regime. Once that African Machiavelli had the full resources of the Malemban police state at his beck and call, he would be almost impossible to touch. It had to be now.
First, though, he had to confront Klerk. He leaned back in his chair, wanting to think through the best approach, one that would give him the flexibility to respond equally effectively, whether Klerk had betrayed the plan or not. Then something caught his eye, a copy of the Johannesburg Star discarded along with the empty coffee cups on a nearby table. The front-page headline screamed ‘Slaughter in Sandton’. Next to it was a sub-head: ‘Death toll rises to seven in billionaire mansion shoot-out’.
A nauseous sense of dread and apprehension clawed at Carver’s guts. He reached across to pick up the paper. Two minutes later, he was on the phone to Sonny Parkes, Wendell Klerk’s head of security.
‘It’s Carver,’ he said. ‘We need to meet. Now.’
77
Half an hour later, Carver was standing in the street outside Klerk’s mansion while Sonny Parkes talked their way past the police guard manning the barricades and crime-scene tape round the entrance to the house. One look at Parkes told Carver why Klerk had trusted him so much. Sonny Parkes had a prop-forward’s body, a boxer’s nose, a balding skinhead’s haircut and a redneck’s complexion. Plenty of men who look like that are no better than drunken thugs, and that’s on a good day. Others, though – the ones blessed with intelligence, courage and a sound temperament – are the warriors you want fighting beside you in the trenches. It’s a common enough cliché, but Carver had been there for real, and he knew just by looking at him that Parkes had too.
‘They pitched up just here,’ Parkes was saying, ‘at five-oh-two yesterday morning. Six of them, we reckon, with a seventh as the driver. The vehicle they used was one of those crazy bloody stretch Hummers: white, hired from a rental company on an account we’ve traced back to a shell company, registered in the Dutch Antilles. No way of knowing who owns it.’
‘My guess, there’s no need to ask,’ said Carver. ‘It’ll be Moses Mabeki.’
‘What, that ugly f*cker from Malemba, the one who hangs around Henderson Gushungo? What’s he got to do with this?’
The puzzlement in Parkes’s voice was genuine. Klerk had involved his security chief in getting Justus Iluko and his kids the help they needed, but he hadn’t been let in on the rest of the Malemban operation. That was useful to know.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Carver. ‘Just go on with what happened here.’
Parkes shrugged. ‘One of the passengers, a young woman, gets out the car and comes over to the guardhouse over here, all giggly, flirtatious, pretending to be drunk: a real come-and-get-me act. We know this because it’s all on tape from the CCTV camera up there. She persuades the guys on duty to come round to the side and open up the communication hatch here. Then she walks right up and shoots them, cool as you like. Double-tap to the head, both times.’
‘The gun?’
‘Walther TPH, a real lady’s gun.’
‘Professional’s gun, too. Perfect for close-range work. No mess.’
‘True enough, and she was a professional all right, a real cold-blooded piece of work. She took out both guards before either of them could even get their guns out of their holsters.’
‘Or their thumbs from their arses.’
Parkes gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Exactly. Then she climbed through the window, over the bodies and went over to the control panel. Can you see it in there?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, that’s where she switched off all the cameras and alarms and cut the feed to XPT headquarters.’
‘So you weren’t running the actual security operation at the house.’
‘No, I was not.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, why not?’
Parkes sighed bitterly. ‘Outsourcing. Cost-cutting. All the usual corporate crap. The theory is that the organization has a helluva lot of properties around the world that it needs to protect. Not just Klerk’s houses, but offices, factories, mines, you name it. It’s cheaper and easier to hire local contractors for each of them, instead of hiring, paying and looking after full-time employees. I’m responsible for keeping tabs on all the different companies we use in this part of the world. And I’ve got a separate team of my own. We provide close protection whenever one of the Klerk household is out and about.’
‘So XPT had plans of the house and the grounds?’
‘Ja.’
‘Who else?’
‘The house is only four years old, so there are the architects, contractors and sub-contractors who worked on the place; the civic authorities, planning department and so forth – a lot of people, man.’
‘And you think one of them gave the plans to whoever did this?’
‘Someone did, that’s for damn sure. Anyway, once the guards are dead, at least five people get out of the limo and come this way.’
‘How do you know there were five?’
‘You’ll see.’
Parker walked through the gate, gesturing to Carver to follow, talking as he went.
‘The gate closes behind them so no one outside can see what’s happening. The limo drives away. We know this because a local resident who’d been out for the night drove past at around five past five and he’s absolutely certain there was no white Hummer parked here.’
‘It would be pretty hard to miss.’
‘Exactly. Now, the five walk towards the house.’
As they came up the drive, Carver got his first proper view of the Klerk residence. It was a two-storey, flat-roofed modernist building, massed in a series of linked boxes. Plain walls of olive-grey concrete were pierced by wide expanses of floor-to-ceiling glass.
The geometric starkness of the construction was offset by the lush greenery all around it. Palms and other trees stood among impeccably trimmed hedges and brightly coloured flowers spilled from huge concrete planting boxes. The drive swept up to a formal entrance but Parkes ignored it and kept walking round the side of the building.
‘They came round here to the back of the building.’
Carver followed him to an expanse of flagstones, framing the turquoise water of the house’s swimming-pool. A set of steps ran from the pool area up to the back of the house. Parkes set off up the stairs. At the top, he stopped in front of a wall made up of wooden-framed glass panels, one of which had been smashed.
‘They got in through the lounge area here. Just shot a couple of holes in the glass and knocked the rest out with the butts of their guns.’
‘Must have made a helluva noise,’ observed Carver.
‘Damn right it must. But whoever they were, they didn’t care about that. I get the feeling they wanted Klerk to know they were there.’
‘Because they knew how he’d react?’
‘That’s what I think, ja.’
‘But how could they know that?’
Parkes shook his head ruefully. ‘I don’t know, man, not for sure. But anyone who knows Klerk knows he’s never, ever going to back down from a fight. They were probably trying to provoke him.’
‘And it worked.’
‘Oh ja, it worked all right. And now I’ll show you where he found them.’
78
The lounge led into a dining area. Sixteen chairs ringed a huge hardwood dining table. There were more David Shepherd water-colours and drawings of elephants on the wall – studies, perhaps, for the huge oil painting at Campden Hall – and another set of tusks on either side of a modern marble fireplace. The room looked completely untouched. Carver wondered when he’d get to the scene of the action.
Then they walked into the kitchen, and suddenly they were in a war-zone. The solid oak kitchen cabinets had been ripped apart like balsa wood. Huge holes had been gouged in the walls. And every surface – walls, floors, units, even the ceiling in some places – had been spattered with dark crimson blood.
‘Bloody hell,’ Carver gasped. ‘What happened here?’
‘Are you familiar with the AA-12 automatic shotgun?’
‘I’ve heard of it. Never used one.’
‘Well look around, because this is what happens when twenty-nine twelve-gauge rounds are fired in quick succession in a confined area, hitting four human bodies at point-blank range: three male, one female, each with multiple rounds.’
‘Klerk had an AA-12?’
‘That’s right: one in every house.’
‘So he found the intruders, opened up, took four of them out. And the fifth?’
‘Didn’t come into the kitchen with her buddies but sneaked round another way, went into the hall, followed Klerk into the kitchen and took him out just like the boys down at the guardhouse: two to the head from a Walther TPH.’
‘Same shooter?’
‘Can’t be certain yet. The cops won’t have the full ballistics report for two or three days. But I don’t think so. I reckon the first shooter stayed where she was. This was a different one. But just as homicidal.’
‘Ironic, isn’t it? There’s Klerk blasting away with an automated bazooka and he gets popped by a pea-shooter.’
Parkes looked at Carver coldly. ‘If you say so. But the way I see it, my employer died on my watch. Ironic’s not the word I’d use.’
‘No, I suppose not. What did the shooter do after she’d taken out Klerk? Did she go looking for Brianna Latrelle?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. We reckon she went back out of the property, met up with her girlfriend and they both left, leaving the gate closed behind them.’
‘How did they leave? You said the Hummer had gone.’
‘I reckon there was another vehicle involved. I’ve got a couple of my guys with the police at the moment, going over the footage from every camera between here and the Taboo nightclub, which is where we think they came from, trying to see if we can spot it.’
‘So they were gone by the time the first XPT cars arrived?’
‘Uh-huh. Response time was actually five minutes and nineteen seconds, which is within their six-minute guarantee. But all the bad guys had skedaddled.’
‘And Latrelle?’
‘She was safe and sound in a panic room. Most of the big houses round here have one. She was majorly upset, obviously, and suffering from shock. They took her to hospital, just to keep an eye on her. But basically she was fine. She’s upstairs now, if you want to speak to her.’
‘That would be good.’
They headed into the main hall of the building from which a glass and steel staircase rose up to the first floor.
‘So Klerk would have been fine if he’d just gone into the room with Latrelle, right?’ Carver asked.
‘Yep.’
‘But somehow they must have known that he wouldn’t do that because they didn’t care about making a noise and alerting him. Just like they knew about the security systems, and the layout of the house … Hold on a minute.’
Carver stopped by the foot of the stairs. When he spoke again his voice was barely a whisper.
‘Was Latrelle their contact on the inside? She may play-act the pretty arm-candy, but she’s not stupid.’
Parkes nodded. ‘I agree. You underestimate her at your peril.’
‘She could have got hold of the plans,’ Carver continued. ‘She’d have known how Klerk would react to an attack. She knew she couldn’t be touched in the panic room. Why not her?’
‘She’s a suspect, for sure. But I tell you, I got here yesterday morning a few minutes after the boys from XPT and I saw Miss Latrelle as they were getting her out of the panic room. I also saw her go to pieces when she caught sight of Klerk’s body, just a glimpse of it as they were carrying her past the kitchen on a gurney. I tell you, that woman was falling apart. She’d have to be a bloody Oscar-winning actress to fake that. The other thing is, everyone knows she wanted Klerk to marry her. As his wife, she’d have first call on all his cash if he died. If she wanted him dead, why not wait till after the wedding?’
‘Yeah, OK … I don’t think Latrelle wanted Klerk dead either,’ Carver agreed. ‘She loved the old bastard, though she had no illusions about him at all. And I’ll tell you something else. She was certain something bad was going to happen. She told me so, but I didn’t take her seriously. Wish I had. But even so, I don’t think she expected Klerk to be on the receiving end.’
Carver sighed as he weighed it all up. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s go and talk to the grieving girlfriend.’
79
Brianna Latrelle looked wrecked. She was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally shattered. Her face was bare of makeup, her hair scraped back in a carelessly tied ponytail, and her usually immaculate designer clothes had been replaced by a battered old pair of Levis and a plain silk blouse. The effect, however, was to make her seem more human, more vulnerable and to Carver’s eyes infinitely more attractive than the painted doll who’d been on display throughout that weekend in Suffolk.
He was about to offer his condolences, one of those standard ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ platitudes, but she beat him to it.
‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I told you there was something wrong.’
‘I know … So who do you think it was?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it was you. I get the feeling you could do a thing like this.’
‘I was on the other side of the world. I didn’t get into Jo’burg till seven-fifteen this morning. But if you’re talking about the other people who met at Campden Hall, Zalika was with me and Patrick Tshonga was busy running for his life.’
Parkes butted in: ‘Patrick Tshonga – what the hell are you talking about, Carver? And Moses Mabeki, the first person you mentioned when you got here. Why was that?’
‘Because he has to be the person behind this attack,’ said Carver. ‘See, Klerk and Tshonga met in England earlier this month to finalize plans for a bloodless coup in Malemba – the same coup that went so spectacularly wrong yesterday. The deal was that Klerk would help Tshonga gain power and in return he’d get a big mining concession. Klerk admitted he was just in it for the money. He reckoned he was going to make billions.’
‘And your role in all this?’ asked Parkes.
‘No comment. But I’ll tell you this much. I knew yesterday morning that Mabeki had found out about Klerk and Tshonga’s plan. He knew exactly what was going to happen. He was one step ahead of me all the way in Hong Kong and his people were ahead of Tshonga and Klerk here, too. The only thing I haven’t worked out is whether he did a deal with one of those two guys and then double-crossed them, or the plan was leaked by someone else. I’d thought it might be you, Parkes. That’s why I dropped Mabeki’s name earlier. I wanted to see how you’d react. It could have been you, too, Brianna.’
‘But it wasn’t.’
‘So let’s concentrate on Mabeki. He’s always going to stick to the shadows. He’s not exactly got a face for presidential politics. But if you want to grab and keep power in Malemba, he’s a good man to have on your side. So Patrick Tshonga, for example, might decide that this was a perfect time to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. That would also remove the embarrassing possibility of people finding out that he owed his power to a deal with a white man. That wouldn’t play too well on the African street.’
‘But none of this could happen without killing Gushungo,’ said Parkes. ‘I suppose that was your department?’
‘As I said, no comment.’
‘For f*ck’s sake,’ snapped Parkes. ‘I can’t believe I’m wasting my time talking to you. I’m calling the authorities. They can sort it out.’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ said Carver matter-of-factly.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, in the first place, if I had killed anyone – hypothetically – I couldn’t let you call the cops, could I?’
‘I’d like to see you stop me.’
‘And in the second,’ said Carver, ignoring him, ‘if you have any regard at all for the memory of Wendell Klerk and his family, then you won’t go public with this. The scandal would destroy his reputation and wreck everything he ever worked for. But most importantly, you don’t want to do it because any delay is going to make it more likely that Mabeki harms or even kills Zalika Stratten, if he hasn’t done so already.’
Parkes frowned. ‘Miss Stratten? What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Mabeki abducted her yesterday morning, while we were in Hong Kong. I tried to stop him, but he’d obviously got the whole thing planned while I was still blundering around like the proverbial one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. I’m counting on the fact that he’s brought her back to Malemba, and I’m hoping you’re both going to help me get her back. Look, I know you and Zalika weren’t exactly best friends for ever, Brianna …’
‘You don’t know anything about …’ She seemed to run out of energy halfway through the sentence.
‘About what?’ Carver asked.
‘Oh, forget it. I guess I’m just sick of all this. Why was Wendell trying to bring down governments just for some stupid mine, when he already had enough money to last him a hundred lifetimes? That’s what he could never understand about me. I didn’t love him for the money. I loved him despite the money. But look what the money’s done to him … and to Zalika.’
‘None of this is her fault.’
‘You don’t think so? Well, she was there at all your meetings, as I recall, looking down her nose at me while Wendell told me to go fix the chef’s soufflés. She was right up to her pretty neck in it, so it’s hard for me to feel too sorry for her now.’ Brianna grimaced. ‘Listen to me, I sound like a total bitch. Just let me pack and I’ll get out of here.’
Parkes put a consoling hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ll leave you to it, Miss Latrelle. Come on, Carver, let’s give the lady some peace.’
They went back outside, and Parkes sat down on the end of one of the upholstered sun loungers arrayed beside the pool.
‘Pull up a seat,’ he said, pointing at the other loungers. He took a packet of cigarettes from the chest pocket of his shirt. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Suit yourself. So, tell me what you want to do.’
‘Let’s start with Mabeki. I don’t think he’s going to kill Zalika Stratten. Not yet. But she might wish she were dead, the things he’s going to do to her.’
‘I’ve worked with Zalika Stratten. It’s not a nice thought, a girl like her with a sick bastard like Mabeki.’
‘No, it’s not. And I feel about it the same way you do about Klerk. She was taken on my watch. It’s down to me to get her back.’
Parkes blew a long stream of smoke into the clear morning air. ‘Ja, that I understand.’
‘So then the question is: where’s he keeping her? I can’t believe he’d have her in Sindele. It’s too risky. He doesn’t want the outside world knowing he’s got a kidnapped woman. But there is somewhere that makes perfect sense: the place where they both grew up, where Mabeki nursed his hatred and which he believes should belong to him by rights anyway – the Stratten Reserve.’
Parkes took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘It’s a helluva long shot, Carver. Malemba’s a bloody big country. She could be anywhere.’
‘She could, yes. But I’m certain it’s the reserve. Hell, it’s not just the Strattens that kept Mabeki from owning the land, Gushungo did, too. Mabeki killed the Strattens, then just when he was ready to claim his kingdom, his boss took it away from him. I know this bastard, the way he nurses his grudges. He wants that land. And if he can imprison Zalika Stratten, of all people, there, that’ll just make taking it, and her, all the sweeter.’
‘Let’s suppose you’re right. What do you plan to do about it?’
‘Go there, free her, get her across the border. Then I’m going back for Mabeki.’
Parkes laughed. ‘Sounds like you’re planning a busy day. What are you going to do tomorrow, cure cancer? Bring peace to the Middle East?’
‘No, that’s not my job. Getting Zalika is. Sorting Mabeki is. So, you going to help me or not?’
Parkes stubbed out his cigarette on the paving, threw it into the nearest shrubbery, and immediately pulled another cigarette from the box. He took his time lighting it, then took another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out equally slowly. At last he glanced across at Carver and said, ‘Ja, I’m in. My men, too.’
‘How well do you know the Stratten Reserve?’
‘Can’t help you there, brother. Never been there in my life.’
‘Well that’s a problem, then, because I haven’t either,’ Carver admitted. ‘But I know a man who has. You happen to know what Justus Iluko is doing today?’
‘Ja, I do, as it happens. He’s got a court date this afternoon, his kids too. The lawyer’s managed to combine all their cases into one. She wants to establish them all as victims of the same conspiracy. So now they’ve got a bail hearing. Not that they’ll be offered any, of course.’
‘How far is the court from the jail?’
‘Dunno, man. But we can easily get a streetmap of Buweku and find out.’
‘And they’ll be taken there by car or truck?’
‘I guess.’
‘Then that’s when we’ll grab them. How soon can you get us to Buweku?’
Parkes almost gagged on the smoke as he burst out laughing. ‘I’ll say one thing for you, Carver,’ he gasped. ‘You don’t f*cking hang about, do you?’