Killer Country (9 page)

Lufthansa 301 came out of dense cloud at one thousand feet, lined up with Frankfurt’s north runway. Pitch black at six ten in the a.m., five minutes ahead of schedule. Rain sluicing down. Wonderful, Mace thought. An hour later he was in the air again on the Berlin connection, a Turkish Mädchen offering rolls and coffee. Which he accepted, his stomach gurgling. One thing: the coffee was as good as airlines could get it; the rolls fresh.

This early on a Sunday morning only a few dozen people scattered around the cabin. Mace in a row to himself, grateful for the space after the cramp of the overnight long haul, shifted to the window seat, looked down on grey cloud that broke once revealing rectangles of brown farmland furrowed with snow. 

By seven forty-five he’d cleared Tegel and was in a taxi on the Stadtring, listening to tyres hiss against the wet road, thinking, the last time he’d met Isabella in Berlin was January 1989. Same sort of conditions only colder. Dirty snow then stamped on the pavements and lumpy under hedges.

She’d turned a gun deal around for him. Afterwards, in the Kempinski, they’d screwed in the shower because the shower had black marble tiles that she found sexy. He hadn’t thought about Isabella for weeks, maybe a month. Her memory a sudden ache in his chest.

He wondered if there’d be a time he’d no longer think of Isabella. He couldn’t imagine this would be. Only had to hear REM singing about the end of the world as they knew it, to see Isabella at the Café Adler coming in with the chorus. Her playful voice: and I feel fine. Isabella, sitting other side of the table, two empty espresso cups between them, saying, ‘Maybe I can oblige. Once again.’ And getting him the hardware just like that after a couple of phone calls. Talk about feeling fine. Across the road Check Point Charlie grim as it ever was. The two of them randy with triumph and laughter.

He had to smile. Made the heartache of missing her even worse in a way. Maybe later he’d find a record shop, listen to the song again.

At ten, after he’d showered in a shower with cream tiles, changed into a black polo neck and black jeans, Mace met Rudi Klett downstairs in the Kempinski’s breakfast room. Rudi Klett with the sleeves of his jacket hitched up to expose his forearms. A black Armani jacket, wool. Even in the desert Rudi Klett had worn jackets with the sleeves hiked to his elbow. Linen jackets in acknowledgement of the heat. Rudi Klett without a jacket was not a Rudi Klett Mace had ever seen.

‘You have a gun?’ Rudi Klett said when they’d greeted and done the hug and the backslap and Mace sat opposite him while a waiter spread a napkin across his lap.

‘How am I supposed to have a gun, Rudi?’ said Mace. ‘I’ve flown across the world. You can’t carry a gun on an aeroplane.’

‘Bah,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘that is nonsense. I have special permission for my fellows to do this. In the security business you must have such allowances too. Not so? There is no way to protect anybody otherwise.’

‘We manage. Nobody’s been shot yet.’

‘Yes of course but there is always a first time. Therefore as a precaution I have a present for you.’ Mace felt a package pushed against his shoe. ‘Bring it to the airport tomorrow. I promise there will be no problem at the check-in. In South Africa we walk straight through customs because who is going to have a gun coming off a plane? Obviously no one. Also it is a present you will want to keep. A P8. The army’s choice. An example of the excellence of German manufacture. We thank you Herr Heckler and Herr Koch. Regrettably I have to say it is second-hand but never fired out of anger. Or with fear. Something a connoisseur will appreciate, am I not correct?’

‘The gun or the sentiment?’

Rudi Klett smiled. ‘Ah, my old friend Mace Bishop does not change.’

The waiter shuffled to gain their attention. Mace glanced up at him, but the waiter’s face was bland as if he’d not heard a word they’d said. They both ordered continental breakfasts; Mace anticipating a fine array of hams and cheese.

At the buffet bar, Rudi Klett said, ‘In South Africa there might be some interest in my name with the authorities. Which would be an inconvenience, you would agree? So I shall be travelling as Herr Wolfgang Schneider, a businessman from Siemens head office, Berlin. This is no problem, only a precaution.’

Mace didn’t respond, from the old days used to Rudi Klett’s anonymous way of flitting about the world. In the old days he’d never travelled on the same passport twice. And clearly Klett enjoyed  the thrill. Still, you had to believe the money was big for Klett to put himself on the line if it involved so much cloak and dagger.

‘The last time I was in your country,’ said Rudi Klett, his plate stacked with meat, cheese, a melon slice, a bunch of grapes, ‘was some years ago to facilitate the business with the frigates and the submarines. You should have stayed in the business, Mace. Not the small arms. That is pocket money. The big deals. You could have been useful, you and Pylon. We trusted you in the olden days. With these others we had to talk to we did not know them, we could not trust them.’

‘We were small fry,’ said Mace.

‘So what do small fry do, you have to lick the right backsides, and then you are not small fry anymore. But no, this is not the way of Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso. You had no ambition, Mace. Look at what you do now? Bodyguards. Instead of sitting at home with lots of money in the Cayman, you are here in Berlin to look after me. With this arms deal you could have made life easy for me, for your government, for yourself. No more worries for the rest of your life.’

‘But you’re worried,’ said Mace, lining a roll with parma ham and smearing a film of honey over the meat.

‘Cautious, my friend. Cautious.’ Rudi Klett cut his melon into cubes and sank his fork into the flesh. ‘Because I have to sign the documents personally for the development with Pylon, I have to come to South Africa. It is not a good time for me to come to South Africa. You know there is a presidential enquiry into the arms deal about the frigates and they want to talk to me. If they know I am in the country they will stop me from leaving. But.’ Delicately, unhurried, he lifted the fork and closed his mouth about the cube of melon. Dabbed at the corners of his lips with a serviette. ‘But I like to live dangerously.

‘My problem,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘is that I know everything about that arms deal. I watched the money. I know where it went. Who  has got it. Sometimes this is an asset. Sometimes this is a liability. In your country it is a liability. In your country if I am killed I am just another victim of crime. A poor tourist, shot for his euros in the street. Anywhere I can be killed and it is just your crime problem. Something random. Something most unfortunate. This is so convenient a cover-up, you would agree?

‘I do not want to talk to your president’s commission. There are many other people in your country who do not want me to talk to your president’s commission. Especially the president. They know how I feel about keeping everything kosher but they cannot take the risk. At home I have a request I received for an interview. This is a letter from a judge, the chairman of the president’s commission. They will send someone here to Berlin to have a little discussion with me. If I would oblige. You have heard of this person, Judge Telman Visser?’

Mace nodded, swallowed the food in his mouth. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’ve met him.’

‘Ah so. Tell me?’ Rudi Klett wrapped a strip of gruyere in ham and bit off half of it.

‘I don’t know much. I only met him yesterday. Briefly.’

Through the mouthful Rudi Klett said, ‘Is he government?’

‘Difficult to say.’ Mace shrugged. ‘He gave a big government man six years for corruption, so maybe not.’

Rudi Klett looked up from his food. ‘How do you know him?’

‘He came to us because he’s spooked about the farm murders. He wants security for his parents.’

‘This is natural.’

‘Of course, they’re old. He’s worried. The way things are there’re fifteen, twenty, farm murders a month. You’re living with that sort of statistic you’re going to have someone calling sometime.’

‘The South African civil war.’

‘It’s good for the security business.’

Rudi Klett laughed his hard Machiavellian laugh, reached out  and clapped Mace on the shoulder. ‘Only arms traders can be so cynical.’ He broke a roll. Lifted a curl of butter from a silver dish and dabbed it on a piece. ‘So, then, your friend the judge is a good man to head a commission, you would agree?’

‘Probably.’

Rudi Klett popped the piece of roll into his mouth. ‘With all these names and numbers in my head and many people that want this information to disappear forever, your judge is a good man for me to stay away from.’ He chewed and swallowed.

‘Not difficult,’ said Mace, ‘he’s in a wheelchair.’

Rudi Klett raised his eyebrows but made no comment.

When they’d finished eating and the waiter had brought them second espressos, Rudi Klett told Mace that he’d been sorry to hear about Isabella. In turn, Mace briefly told him the story, leaving out the drug deal and the gun deal, keeping it simple to a love triangle. Hubby shoots wife to get out of the marriage so he can marry his squeeze, hopes the murder will be lost in the general mayhem.

‘My point,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘You want to kill anybody you take them to South Africa. Bam. Sounds like it’s part of the background noise.’

‘Except not this time,’ said Mace. ‘The guy’s sitting. Life. Which means what, ten, fifteen years? When he comes out the brother, Isabella’s brother’s, got a contract on him. Wants him whacked as part of the background noise.’

‘That is what I like, a little bit of revenge.’ Rudi Klett stood, pointed at the package underneath the table. ‘Don’t forget the present.’

Mace retrieved it and the two men shook hands.

‘Tonight,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘do not make arrangements. I will show you something that will interest you. Shall we say eight o’clock? Yes? Until then enjoy Berlin. You will find the city has put on make-up but underneath we are the same whores.’ He laughed, and Mace watched him walk out, draping his coat around his shoulders in the European way. Always reminded Mace of Count Dracula.

Fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Popo Dlamini, Pylon drove through the ornate entrance, stopped the Merc at the security gatehouse of the golf estate. He recognised one of the guards on duty. Couldn’t remember his name though.

‘Mr Buso,’ the man greeted him. ‘Didn’t know you were a white ball addict?’

Pylon shook his head. ‘You didn’t know because I’m not.’ He slipped his shades down his nose, looked at the security man over the top. ‘You worked for us, yeah?’

‘Couple of years back’

‘And this is more exciting?’

‘Free golf. Get to see the rich and famous too, and I don’t have to take so much of their crap.’

‘Tell me about it.’

He handed Pylon a clipboard: name, host, vehicle registration, time in, time out. Said, ‘Who’re you seeing?’

Pylon told him Popo Dlamini.

While Pylon filled in the daily sheet, the security man put through a call to Popo Dlamini.

‘No answer,’ he said, taking back the clipboard.

Pylon checked his watch. ‘Must be there. I’m not that late.’

‘Probably he’s out, talking to a neighbour,’ the security man said. ‘This is the crap we have to deal with. People know they have an appointment, so they leave the house and sit in the club bar or chat up women on the fairway. Makes them important when we come looking for them. Black guys are the worst.’

Pylon let it go. Probably this was why the man didn’t work for them any longer. Said, ‘What’s his address? I’ll find him.’

The security man hesitated. ‘Someone’s gotta take you. Hang on, there’s personnel in the office.’

‘Hey,’ said Pylon, ‘I’m late already.’

The security man nodded, not happy about this but giving the address anyhow. Said, ‘I’ll try him again.’ He pressed a button to raise the boom.

‘Do that,’ said Pylon. ‘Before you’re finished I’ll be knocking on his door.’

Pylon drove in, following directions, passed golfers trundling home in their golf carts, couples gardening, children riding bikes and skateboards like here they weren’t at risk of being snatched away by paedophiles. Probably they weren’t. This was Treasure’s dream location, so up close to the mountain you could hear the francolins calling. Way better than a security complex in her estimation. After the new baby and the AIDS orphan she’d let him know that the dream location wasn’t far behind.

‘How about a unit in my golf estate?’ Pylon had responded.

‘Up the west coast?’

‘Forty-five minutes out of town.’

She’d given him the you’ve-got-to-be-joking glare. ‘Hayi! At two o’clock in the morning it’s forty-five minutes maybe. Any other time of the day it’s double that. And where’s Pumla supposed to school? We’re supposed to change her school? I don’t think so.’

Not the end of the conversation. Treasure had gone through to the kitchen and come right back. ‘Much better to take the profit and buy into somewhere established. That’s the option, okay? Somewhere the kids are safe.’

He turned into Gary Player Close went to the bottom and came back, parking outside number twenty-five. Place looked like nobody had woken up yet. Curtains closed. Pylon switched off, sat a moment scoping the street. You looked closely it seemed Popo Dlamini’s neighbours were as dozy. Not much sign of life in their houses. And so quiet he could hear Popo Dlamini’s phone ringing.

Wouldn’t Treasure love this. The mountains so clear you felt you could touch them. No more cluster clatter. The neighbours  had a row you wouldn’t hear it in your bedroom. He got out of the Merc and flicked the remote locking. The car beeped. Probably in this sort of street that wasn’t necessary.

Pylon went round his car and down the short path to the door, almost trod on an iPod. Neat device. The sort of thing he’d been meaning to get. He picked it up, flicked through the menu: scrolling a list of music, a lot he recognised. If this was Popo Dlamini’s they had more than business in common. He pressed the doorbell, heard it chime inside the house, competing with the phone. Then the phone stopped. Nobody’d answered it though. He rang the bell again. No movement inside. The phone rang once more and Pylon reckoned if the security boys were any good they’d be down within two, three minutes. Before then he tried Popo Dlamini’s cellphone. He could hear that going off, too. Fainter, maybe in a bedroom. The call went to voicemail and Pylon disconnected. He tried the door. Locked.

Was standing there, considering taking the path to the front of the house when the security guard from the main gate cycled up.

‘Regulations,’ he said to Pylon, more out of breath than Pylon thought he should’ve been. ‘A call goes unanswered we’ve gotta find out why.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Pylon, still holding the iPod. ‘Best we try round the other side.’

‘Once more,’ said the security man, going through the routine of pressing the doorbell, knocking on the door.

‘Regulations,’ said Pylon.

The security man grimaced. ‘We don’t do it they shit on us. The white major, our boss, is like manic.’ He also jiggled the door handle. ‘So okay let’s try the other door.’

Pylon followed him round the house to a patio, open to a section of green rough and then the fairway. No golfers visible, only a pair of hadedas spiking through the grass, the sun glinting off the blue burnish of their backs. 

On the patio, a table laid out with plates, a bowl of salad, bread rolls. Two candles burnt out. On the grid of the portable braai, charred steaks over a heap of white ash and the smell of the fire still noticeable. The sliding door from the house to the patio wide open.

Pylon thought, save me Jesus, going hard on the security guard’s heels through the clutter of garden furniture into the house. Took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and the sight of Popo Dlamini collapsed against a couch with a third eye in his forehead, a track of blood down his face, that’d pooled on his chest. Other side of the couch a female body, her short skirt rucked up on her stomach, exposing a white tanga and long legs. He saw a wine glass smashed on the floor in the entrance to the room, a loop of wine spilt across the back of the couch. Like the glass had been thrown.

The security guard said, ‘Oh shit!’ – started jabbering on his radio to the security office. ‘There’s a murder/suicide, number twenty-five.’

Unlikely, thought Pylon, seeing a shell on the floor and peering for a closer look. .22 Long Rifle. Ordinary stuff, not even hypervelocity. Not a hollow point. You used this sort of ammo, you had to know what you were doing.

The security guard was clutching his arm, saying, ‘We’ve gotta stay outside, Mr Buso. Please.’

Pylon shook him off. ‘Sure, sure, let’s go.’ The security guard turning to leave while Pylon stepped over to the female body. The woman was lying front down, her head skewed sideways, her right cheek and eye a mess of gore.

The guard shouting at him from the door, ‘Come on, get out, get out.’

Even through the blood, Pylon recognising Lindiwe Chocho. He didn’t say anything, slipped the iPod into his jeans pocket and joined the guard outside.

As cops and paramedics and ambulances screeched in, Pylon  called their friendly cop: Captain Gonsalves. The very man in shit with Mace over the natural born killers, Paulo and Vittoria. From time to time Complete Security contributed to the good captain’s retirement fund. In return for favours. What they called among the three of them a working relationship.

The phone went to ten rings before Gonsalves answered, Pylon about to hang up. ‘What’s it?’ said the policeman. ‘This’s a Sunday dammit.’

‘Little story about a murder,’ said Pylon. ‘Two murders actually.’

‘That you Buso? Where’s the Bishop fella?’

‘Around.’

‘But you’re in the shit again?’

‘Not exactly.’ In a sentence Pylon gave the guts and glitter of the side interest. ‘The one body lying there belongs to a brother I know, Popo Dlamini. The other body lying there belongs to the wife of someone I don’t know, man called Obed Chocho.’

‘Politician or something?’ said Gonsalves. ‘Done for fraud or theft?’

‘That’s the wonderful man. High-up type. Can talk to the president.’

‘So what’re you telling me? It’s a hit?’

‘Chocho’s still in prison, has to be. Not only that. We’re talking a pro. Uses a .22 probably silenced. You can’t hear that gun if you’re not listening for it. This is neat. Efficient. This shooter doesn’t want back-splatter over the curtains. He fires a head shot the bullet stays in the brain. Nice and contained. Except for the lovely Lindi. Her face is a bit mucked up. And I couldn’t see but there’s probably a body shot.’

‘You’re saying what? She jumped him.’

‘Probably closer than she should’ve been. I don’t know. You’re the expert.’

‘This is outta my area,’ said Gonsalves. ‘What you expect meto do?’

Pylon could hear he was chewing. No doubt had the phone tucked under his chin while he peeled a cigarette and balled the tobacco in the palm of his hand.

‘Keep a watching brief. Let me know from time to time what’s going on.’

‘You reckon Chocho did them?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

A pause filled with the suck and sluck of Gonsalves working a tobacco plug round his mouth.

‘What’re we talking here?’

‘I can make a contribution. Say five hundred bucks.’

‘That’s cheap. Double it.’

‘Hell no. To just tell what happens? You’re crazy. Six tops.’

‘Seven-fifty.’

Pylon sighed. ‘You’re a hard man Captain Gonsalves.’

‘You think I like it that my retirement package’s gonna have me being night-time desk security in some office block? After
forty-two
years on the force. Hey, you think I enjoy that?’

‘The service,’ said Pylon. ‘There’s no force in it anymore.’

‘Bloody right,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Another thing, tell the Bishop fella he can relax. The court case isn’t gonna happen. Seems Paulo got on the wrong side of his prison pals, they cut his head off. Vittoria she tried to escape in transit, got shot for her troubles.’ He disconnected.

The cops insisted Pylon made a statement there and then. He sat on the patio dictating to a sergeant why he’d come to see Popo Dlamini in the first place, stating the nature of their business association as property investment, leaving out that he knew the name of the dead woman. They’d find out soon enough. No doubt then come asking more questions or they wouldn’t depending on what story they decided best dovetailed the facts.

Nor did he mention the iPod. Had no reason for this except instinct. Cause the iPod could be anybody’s: Popo Dlamini’s,  Lindi Chocho’s, some kid from the estate. Didn’t have to’ve been dropped by the killer on his way out. What sort of killer would go in dangling accessories? Anyhow, Pylon argued to himself, his prints were all over it. Probably if forensics did the work right they’d find a print on it that wasn’t his. Only thing, Pylon was convinced they wouldn’t do the work right but he knew somebody who would. The print info could always be slipped back into the system via Gonsalves should the process of justice get so far as arresting somebody.

Which Pylon doubted it would. Professional contract hits had a low arrest rate. You hired someone at a taxi rank, you all got nailed soon enough. A careful man with a .22 might die a natural death. Even if he dropped the odd iPod.

The other reason Pylon stayed quiet was curiosity about the tunes. Those he’d recognised put the iPod’s owner in a different category. A category not far from his own. They’d be out in familiar territory.

It was going two before Pylon got away but he wasn’t fazed by that. Given him a chance to see that some top brass were called out for this one. Popo Dlamini pulled connections Pylon hadn’t expected. Among them a man with a smile who read Pylon’s statement and asked him what he thought was going on here?

Pylon put the smiler down as national intelligence. Two surprises: the pinkness of the guy’s skin. And his being an Afrikaner. With a smile like that he had to have a load of dirt on someone to still be hanging in there.

Pylon told him the truth, that what he thought was going on was a hit.

Smiler said, ‘Interesting observation. From someone in the business.’ The smile broadening lopsided into his right cheek. ‘Next question’s, why?’

Pylon matched smiler’s smile. ‘One thing I learnt in the  business, all the shit comes from here’ – he tapped his chest. ‘Affairs of the heart.’

‘Strues,’ said smiler. ‘We should have a beer sometime, talk about it.’

‘You got my details,’ said Pylon, pointing at the statement. ‘Now I have to go. I’ve got a wife who’s not taking this well. An hour I told her and back for lunch.’

Smiler added a nod to his smile. When Pylon turned the corner of the house, he glanced back to see the agency’s man still watching him. One of those types who didn’t smile with their eyes.