Killer Country (15 page)

Mace was pissed off all the flight to Cape Town.

Pissed off that there were voicemail messages from Judge Telman Visser. Pissed off when he got into the car beside Wolfie in the cold wet dark outside the Kempinski, Rudi Klett in the back cheerfully good morning him like the Herr Dr Konrad Schultz interlude hadn’t happened, pissed off when Rudi Klett walked the P8 through check-in at Tegel, pissed off when the only in-flight movie he hadn’t seen was Shrek 2.

Pissed off at Rudi Klett running endless Sudokus on his PDA.

Pissed off at the loop of the REM song in his mind. An hour from Cape Town, calmed down to a point he even wanted to talk to Rudi Klett, Mace said, ‘What was that all about, last night? I didn’t need that, Rudi. I try to stay out of those situations.’

Rudi Klett took off his glasses, glanced at Mace. ‘I am the same. Believe me.’ He switched off the PDA, reached for a watered whisky on his tray. ‘Those sort of situations are not pleasant. I avoid them, too. Usually, these days, people are more cooperative. But the Herr Dr I had been told was a problem. Above his station in life. Like me he is an intermediary. Like me he feeds at the trough. But not like me he worked the margins also. You know what I mean by this?’

Mace nodded. ‘Sure.’

Rudi Klett sipped his whisky. ‘He would keep the money for too long so he could earn interest. If you say the deadline is Thursday, he waits to Monday to make the deposit. Because why? On Friday when you want to know where is the money he says the transaction has gone through but the bank clearance takes a day. On Monday when you phone he says, ah, because of the weekend everything slows down. On Tuesday you have the money so no problem, but in the meantime he has made some thousands that could have been yours.

‘Many people have told him, Herr Dr you are making a mistake. In this business time is honour. If you say Thursday then next Tuesday is not acceptable. I am told that Schultz is yesterday’s man. He gives you any trouble, Herr Klett, I am told, take him out of the loop. This is meant literally. So I do everyone a favour.’

‘Except me.’

‘Na ja. You are unlucky. I am sorry, Mace. Forgive me.’ 

Mace thought, typical Klett, forgive me over and done with but let it go. Said, ‘Tell me about Chancery Court.’

‘Ah ha.’ Rudi Klett grinned. ‘That is a story. In the Dickens book it is where a legal case was heard. Something to do with an inheritance. This case goes on and on until there is no money left in the estate so the lawyers can’t get paid anymore, so the case is dismissed. I think who chose the name for the business had a sense of humour.’

‘I don’t see it.’

‘You know, it is about… what is that English word? Ja, obfuscation. It is about making everything complicated. Chancery Court is a good business I am told. Lots of money goes through the account. But if you phone the office of Chancery Court, no one answers. The phone rings and rings in this little room they have in London.’

‘And so?’

‘So I thought it would be interesting for you to know this.’ Rudi Klett took another swallow of whisky. ‘Once you were in the business of trading arms. Your old friends now trade armaments. The money is different. There are big kickbacks. Maybe what I was doing was offering temptation to you.’

‘I don’t need it,’ said Mace.

Rudi Klett shrugged. ‘Good. Then it is academic.’

The two men fell silent, Mace thinking maybe it might have been a better option than security, to carry on selling guns. The commissions were major. He’d have had no financial worries. Not like now. The house would be paid for and no final demands from the bank for missed payments. A whole different scenario. Then again Oumou’s law had been simple: her or the guns. No choice. But there were always side deals. Things she didn’t need to know about. 

Rudi Klett touched his arm. ‘In the future, if you want to change your mind, let me know. People remember you still. Not  only in your country. All over. They ask about Mace and Pylon. They want to know what you are doing. How you are. So if you have a change of heart…’

‘It’s not going to happen,’ said Mace.

‘The beautiful Oumou.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, you have that saying, needs must when the devil is driving. Something like that. What I am saying is you can always be in touch.’    

Late afternoon, Cape Town International was chaos. Drivers pulling strange manoeuvres with no warning. People crossing the approach road blind to the traffic. Manga and Spitz drove round once to get the layout, came back through the parking lot looking for an old-model Alfa Spider, not a difficult car to spot. There it was gleaming red two rows back in the first section, outside the international hall.

‘Sharp car,’ said Manga, driving them past to an empty bay diagonally opposite, reversing in. ‘Me, personally, I’d take the new model. More vooma. Cars’ve moved on, the new Spider’s got stuff they weren’t even dreaming about when they made that one.’ He switched off.

‘No,’ said Spitz. ‘We are too close.’

‘Hey, captain,’ said Manga, ‘what’s too close? We’re hidden. Five cars between us. They’re not gonna see two gents sitting here. They’ll come out, put their bags in the boot and drive off. Even if they see us it’s two gents sitting in a car.’

‘That is exactly right,’ said Spitz, striking up a menthol. ‘The man is security. He will check out things like that.’

Manga fired the ignition. ‘Your call, captain. Where to?’

Spitz pointed down the row. ‘At the bottom.’ 

Lying in his lap were two colour prints of Mace Bishop. Zoom detail and ink-jet prints that were not the best. But good enough. No chance of making the wrong hit. Unless he got in the way.

Manga did a three-point to get into a bay at the end of the row, the angle too steep to see the Spider. Said, ‘This suit you, captain?’

‘I like it.’

‘Can’t see bugger all.’

‘There is no need for you. I have to see,’ said Spitz.

They had two plans: Plan A and Plan B. Both plans based on the assumption that Mace Bishop would take his client into town.

‘Have to, captain,’ Manga had said. ‘Obviously. Get the cousin to his hotel. The hotel’s in town. Why’d they go out in the other direction?’

‘It is what I would do,’ Spitz had said. ‘I would have another arrangement.’

‘Wena, my cousin!’ Manga had raised his hands in exasperation. ‘You have a sad mind, captain. Sometimes you gotta trust people to act normally.’

Spitz didn’t believe that but decided this time the odds were in his favour. Any doubt, Sheemina February would’ve said something. The woman was a jackal, quick and sly. So he went with the scheme.

Plan A happened at the first traffic light leaving the airport: Manga would draw up alongside the Spider and Spitz in the back would put one into the target as they pulled away, Manga turning left while Mace Bishop and his dead client headed straight on towards town. Might even be a couple of minutes before the Bishop guy noticed anything was wrong. Strapped in, the hit wasn’t going to fall over in a hurry. The catch here was they caught the light on red.

Failing this Plan B kicked in where the road split to join the highway. The Spider would take the city ramp, Manga coming up  on the inside lane, Spitz doing the job at the split. Simple ‘pop and peel’ in Manga’s jargon.

‘Now I check why you use the .22,’ he’d said to Spitz when Spitz outlined the tactic. ‘Causes no shit with the driver.’

Spitz’d looked at Manga as if he was a major moegoe not to have snapped on this before. A look that worked under Manga’s skin. But Manga said nothing.

Spitz held up the printouts of Mace Bishop.

‘Make sure you don’t hit the wrong one, hey, captain,’ said Manga. He kept a straight face, twisting sideways to see if this put a crack up tight-arse Spitz. It didn’t.

Spitz stubbed out his menthol. ‘I am going into the terminal.’ He opened the car door.

‘And I’m supposed to do what?’ Manga’s voice high-pitched. ‘Wait here?’

‘Yes,’ said Spitz. ‘You can chill, my brother’ – smiling to himself at Manga running his mouth about not being an on-tap chauffeur.

‘What you need is a peak cap,’ Spitz said, closing the door, heading off through the warm air to the arrivals hall. Wasn’t the best time for a job: the sun falling fast behind the mountain, the light fading. Another twenty minutes, half an hour he’d be shooting at a shadow. But he had other matters on his mind.

The matter on Spitz’s mind was his bank balance. Finding out if Sheemina February’s word was good. He believed it would be. Then again belief, Spitz knew, was about the world you hoped for, not the one you lived in.

Inside, the arrivals board told him the Lufthansa flight was down thirty-five minutes. Next ten minutes the passengers would start dribbling through.

He found an ATM, put in his bank card and entered his code. Pressed through to his current account: the balance up by
ninety-five
large. Meant she’d paid for Chocho’s wife. A smart move. He transferred the total to an interest account, and closed the menu, withdrawing his card. Then sauntered over to the crowd waiting at the barriers, thinking, no ways Obed Chocho’s wife hadn’t been part of the intended target. Maybe Obed Chocho wasn’t too happy but no ways she’d been collateral. What’d gone down was what the coloured chick had wanted to go down.

Spitz saw the two men: the one pushing a luggage trolley; Mace Bishop as good as his pictures, not a smile to be seen, his eyes running a sweep through the people close up against the barrier. Also noticed how his jacket snagged at his hip and the butt there of a weapon. Had to have a contact to get that through the system.

The German was talking, relaxed, no problems in the world.

Spitz followed them out the building to the parking ticket paypoints. Cleared his own ticket right after Mace Bishop paid for his. The target saying something about dinner as the two men went off.

Spitz tracked them one row to the right. Saw them stop at the Spider, Mace Bishop doing a full three sixty scope and clocking him without concern. Spitz hurried on but not too fast to cause the Bishop guy any anxiety. Ahead he saw Manga slide off the bonnet of the G-string and stand at the driver’s door. The sort of movement any security was going to notice. He motioned him into the car.

Manga had the engine started when Spitz got in at the back. Spitz spitting.

‘Why are you sitting up on the car?’ he said. ‘That was not a clever thing. Why not use a sign saying what we do.’ Spitz set the Ruger on the seat and fished the silencer from his pocket: screwed the can to the barrel.

‘Be cool, captain,’ said Manga. ‘Keep the shakes out of your hands.’

Spitz ignored this. ‘He has got a gun, the security. If he fires back you might need the thirty-eight.’

‘I’ve got it,’ said Manga catching Spitz’s eye in the rearview mirror. 

Spitz shifted over behind the driver’s seat, the gun lying easy against his thigh. He missed the airy croon of Jesse Sykes at a moment like this.

Manga edged the car forward, said, ‘Come on, cousin, let’s go, let’s roll.’ The Spider stayed parked. ‘Why’sn’t he moving?’

‘We must just wait with patience. In the parking bay.’

‘I can’t see him from there, captain. I gotta be forward to see him.’ Manga rolling the car back and forth like a kiddies ride at a fairground.

Spitz said, ‘You are getting an audience for us.’ A family group up the row, packing luggage into a SUV, staring at them.

‘No problem,’ said Manga, ‘we’re moving. Hot to trot, let’s shake.’ 

The worst part, Mace knew, was stepping into the hall, all the people facing you. Aunties and uncles and kids and grannies and lovers swirling about. The moment he’d choose would be then, in the chaos. Plop. The target goes down, people scream. In those ten seconds you’re walking away, crossing to the drop-and-kiss zone outside, driving off.

Typically with high-profile people he’d have Pylon in the crowd, maybe one other staffer hanging loose for safety’s sake.

With Rudi Klett he was relying on low profile. Wasn’t so much the risk of a hitman lurking among the aunties as the prosecutors angling up with a warrant of arrest. Snappy dressers was who he scanned the hall for as they walked into the exposure. No one stuck out but maybe it was a mistake not having backup anyhow.

He kept Rudi Klett moving, not hurrying, keeping it brisk through the families, the conference greeters, the tourist couriers and outside towards the parking ticket paypoints. Rudi Klett not letting up for a moment on Mace and Pylon joining him for dinner. Why didn’t they get Pylon on the cell right now?

‘In a moment,’ said Mace, ‘okay.’ Digging in his pocket for money. Aware of a man beside him feeding change into the machine.

Rudi Klett saying, ‘Oumou can come too. Why not? And Pylon’s wife. We can arrange babysitters for Christa. I would like this, Mace. I would enjoy us having a good meal together. Something to make up for last night.’

The man behind them now so close Mace could smell his aftershave.

Rudi Klett saying, ‘This would save Oumou preparing a supper. My first night for a long time in your city, this would be a way to celebrate old times, Mace. Not so? If the hotel restaurant is not to your recommendation, then somewhere else. Wherever you choose.’

Mace slowed to keep himself between the man and Rudi Klett until the man brushed past and away. A man without any luggage, no overnight bag, no briefcase. But a man walking away which was how Mace wanted it.

He guided Rudi Klett towards the Spider.

‘No,’ said Rudi Klett, seeing the car. ‘I do not believe it. You have still got this car? So retro. For Mace Bishop, a ’69 Spider in the new century. I do not believe it. If you had said an Alfa I would have said, yes, why not that is a good car. The 147 especially. This would suit the Mace Bishop image. The image of what you do. Security. Protection. Confidence. Fast. Sleek. Discreet. But the old Spider. Like in The Graduate. No, Mace, this is too much.’

‘I prefer it,’ said Mace. ‘It’s different.’

‘There is no joking about that.’

Mace opened the boot, let Rudi Klett heft in his own luggage. Security didn’t extend to valet service.

‘But this is the hard top,’ said Rudi Klett, drumming his fingers on the car’s roof. ‘For an evening such as this we should have the top down. Enjoy the warm air. The smell.’

‘The petrol fumes, you mean.’

‘No, Cape Town has a smell. It’s own smell, like wet bushes.’

‘You can smell that?’

‘I remember it from before. On the mountain.’ He pointed behind Mace at the peninsula mountain chain dark now against the sky. A faint light etching its outline. ‘Look at the mountain so beautiful. Magnificent. Not like Berlin. In Berlin everything is old and heavy and grey. Do you feel it like that?’

‘This time, especially,’ said Mace. His cellphone beeped an sms. Another message from Judge Telman Visser. Mace ignored it, wondering what Rudi Klett would say if he knew the judge was a phone call away.

The men got into the car and Rudi Klett wound down his window.

‘Who else still has a window winder in their car? I don’t know anyone with a car this old.’

‘It’s a talking point.’

Mace pulled the P8 from his belt, clipped it in a holder he’d had fitted on the door. Easy to reach for, easy to bring up the gun in any hijacker’s face. Shoot his nose off before he even sensed a change of play.

In this city you needed it. No point in driving around with a gun if it was stuck in the glove box or the boot. He knew people who kept their weapon in the boot. People who lost both car and gun to the hijacker. Mace would say to them: ‘When you bought the gun you must’ve considered shooting someone? Being in a situation where you had to kill?’ They’d look at him with their mouths open, horrified.

‘I like it,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘Very comforting.’

Mace brought out his cellphone, thumbed through to Pylon. ‘What time you want to make dinner?’

Rudi Klett checked his watch. ‘Say eight-thirty.’

Mace nodded, Pylon answering in a tone even more pissed off than Mace had been earlier. Rattling through a list of the day’s  wrongs from the cop clampdown on Lindiwe’s murder to the Smits pulling out in favour of Obed Chocho. Ending with Treasure being on his case about when was he coming home for supper. Sometimes, he said, he could understand why men ran away from their pregnant wives.

Mace let it wash over him, even the murder bit. ‘Rudi’s paying for dinner. Eight-thirty. onewaterfront. And Treasure’s invited.’

Pylon groaned. ‘This’s going to please her. I can hear it: what’s she going to wear? Where do we get a babysitter? Why’s it always at the last minute.’

‘Shit happens,’ said Mace. ‘Get one of the guys to sit. Best babysitters in the city.’

‘They’re employed for the celebs,’ said Pylon. ‘Not to mind our kids.’

‘Part of the job description.’

Rudi Klett said loudly, grinning, ‘This is your financial backer offering dinner, Mr Buso. Please not to mess him around.’

‘Tell Klett he picks his moments,’ said Pylon.

‘He says you’re going to land him in the crap,’ Mace said to Rudi Klett.

‘Occupational hazard.’

‘Alright,’ said Pylon. ‘We’ll be there.’

Mace disconnected. ‘One more. To Oumou.’

She answered, light and whisky in her voice. ‘You are going to say we have a dinner date with Rudi,’ she said before Mace had said anything.

‘I am.’

‘Good. Because I have made no supper.’

‘And Christa?’

‘Is with Pumla. They have one of your security there to babysit.’

‘That’s not what Pylon told me.’

‘Pylon does not know everything.’

Mace laughed. ‘You and Treasure have a bet on this?’

‘Of course. I know Herr Rudi Klett remember.’ 

Mace said she was the most wonderful woman in the world.

She said she knew that too. She also said there was a judge looking for him. Judge Telman Visser. Who’d phoned not ten minutes earlier.

When he disconnected Rudi Klett said, ‘Oumou has it organised?’

‘She has.’ Mace put the key into the ignition and the engine fired on the turn. ‘In the desert she would do things and I’d wonder why. And then four, five days later something would happen that she’d anticipated. Uncanny stuff. Like Oumou’s in this different world. Past, present and future all mixed up.’

‘Very useful.’

‘No kidding.’

Mace reversed the Spider out of the parking bay and headed for the exit. At the bottom of the row he noticed a black car nose forward. By the time they reached the exit booms the black car filled his rearview mirror: a new-model BMW with the lights on dim, only a driver in it. And not the man he’d marked at the ticket paypoint.

Mace inserted his ticket to open the booms, drove through.