The Big Killing

  'Asseyez-vous!' shouted Rademakers. There was a single pop on the word vous and the haji sat down this time, his eyes wide open, and a red flower with a black hole in the middle of his chest. He reached for it but couldn't get his hands up there. He nodded his head down at his wound, confirming to himself that he'd been hit. He slipped off the side of the chair, his face ending up crushed against the wall.

  The machine pistol was now on Rademakers, whose hands had come up to shoulder height. The gunman nodded him down into his chair and pointed me into another. The man at the door covered us. The others put down their weapons and took out strips of plastic and cuffed us to our seats. The man at the door threw some tape in and they wound it around our heads and over our mouths.

  'Move it,' said the man at the door.

  They checked the office, picked up their arms and the suitcase, turned out the light and left, taking Ron with them. I watched them leave on the video screen, the corridor lights coming on this time and staying on for a minute and then the screen went to black again and the silence was complete.

  My feet were cuffed with a figure of eight of plastic and my hands attached to the chrome stalk at the back of the chair, which was on castors. I drew myself by the heels across to the light switch and turned it on with my forehead. The blood on the floor of the other office had reached the far wall and the glass, like broken sheet ice, seemed to be floating in it.

  Rademakers was bright red in the face, even to the roots of his hair. He was as good as blind without his glasses, which were broken on the floor. His breath tore in and out of his nose, the shantung silk tie pumping up and down on his sparrow's chest. He was frantic.

  I dragged myself over to the aluminium frame, wedged the castors against the fallen door and worked the plastic around my ankles against a shard of glass. It took fifteen minutes to get through it. I stepped into the frame and sawed through the handcuffs, which was quicker. Rademakers was in spasm by now, his chair almost leaving the ground with each jerk of his body. I stripped the tape off his face, tore his tie open and ran my hands down the shirt buttons which opened on to a vest through which I could see the brutal scarring of a chest operation. I called an ambulance. I sawed through his cuffs with a Swiss army knife from his desk and lifted him on to the sofa, his legs kicking out wildly. I loosened off his trousers, ripped open his shirt cuffs and rubbed the side of his neck and checked his pulse, which was a fast and wriggly thread. In the middle of his forearm, amongst the white hairs, was a tattooed number: 173628.

  I called the police, asking for Gbondogo, and then Martin Fall.

  'Do nothing,' said Martin.

  'I can't do nothing. I haven't done nothing. There's a dead haji, two dead bodyguards and Rademakers in very bad shape. I've called the police and an ambulance.'

  'Fucking Christ! How'd they all get killed? Shit. Don't answer. What were the gunmen like?'

  'Three Africans. One with an American accent. The others didn't talk. All fit, looked well-trained, they used explosives to get through the door and they all had their favourite weapons,

  I'd say.'

  'Liberians. Rebels.'

  'Christ knows, but they knew what they were doing and their timing was perfect.'

  'So who knew what Ron was doing?'

  'Apart from me?'

  'Apart from us, Bruce—let's think positive.'

  'He was talking to a guy in the bar a couple of nights ago. A man called Sean Malahide.'

  'Who's he?'

  'An agronomist, a speaker at the conference in the Novotel.'

  'Talk to him.'

  'Probably Borema, who's the fixer in Tortiya, Moses my driver, the police in Tortiya, Bouaké and Abidjan. Maybe the Alfas.'

  'Who are they?'

  'The fixers who met him at the airport. He gave them the brushoff.'

  'And Rademakers?'

  'Yes, but he looks like one of those quiet, discreet kind of people who've been in the diamond business for half a century and know that you don't go blabbing your client's diary around the place.'

  'Find the Alfas and Borema. The police, Christ. Malahide. And see if anybody works for Rademakers.'

  'Haven't you got anybody you can send down here?'

  'Why'd you think you got the job?'

  'But Martin, when things screw up most people wouldn't carry on using their last resort.'

  'I have nobody else I can put down there for a week.'

  'What about you?'

  'Once they've made their demand I'll make a decision. Meantime, find those bastards and get them talking.'

  'Get me the name and address of the Alfas' contact. The Swiss who put Ron on to the diamonds out here should know. Fax me at the Novotel.' I hung up. Rademakers was still breathing, but at the same rate his heart was spasming.

  The police arrived in ten minutes, along with the ambulance. The two paramedics checked Rademakers's condition while another stepped through the aluminium frame and shook his head over the two bodyguards. The ashen colour of the haji and the size of the bloom on his chest didn't even merit a shake of the head.

  Chapter 15

  I took Gbondogo through it step by step three times over, while another officer sat at Rademakers's desk scribbling it all down on a pad. They took me back to the'Sûreté and typed out the statement, which I signed, while Gbondogo gave me more eye treatment than I needed. He asked me my programme for the next few days and released me just after 11.00 p.m. I took a taxi back to my car which was alone in the street. I walked across to the gardien who was sleeping by the chained entrance to the car park and asked him if he'd seen anybody and he told me he'd already been asked that and his answer was the same as the last time.

  The girl in reception gave me a fax from Martin Fall and another from the hospital asking me to visit Rademakers in the morning. I asked about flights to Korhogo and she looked it up in her book and told me the published departure time was 10.00 a.m. She pointed across the lobby to Bagado who was sleeping across three seats, still wearing his blue mac. The dab of white on his hair seemed a bit stronger—Bagado ageing by the week. I booked him in and asked her if Malahide was still in the hotel and she went back to that book of hers and said he'd left after lunch that day.

  Bagado rarely slept preprogrammed for danger and I had to bully him awake, so that he came out of it fighting.

  'You,' he said, accusing me of something terrible.

  'You've got a room. Where's your suitcase? Let's get a drink.'

  'So you think I need a suitcase with my wardrobe,' he said, and pulled a carrier bag out of his pocket. 'Socks, pants, toothbrush. Have you got any toothpaste you can lend me?'

  'I don't lend toothpaste.'

  'I'll use my twig then,' he said, producing a flattened stick. 'I'll give you some of the gunk I use if you want.'

  'No, no, the twig's fine.'

  The bar was closed, due to lack of agronomists on expenses, so we went up to my room.

  'I think I'll have a gin and tonic,' said Bagado.

  'There's Blue Curaçao, crème de menthe, Tia bloody Maria, Bailey's Irish Cream. A real African mini-bar this one—alcoholic toffee. Don't lie down, Bagado,' I said, and he went rigid. 'I'm not carrying you out of here.'

  'My God,' he said. 'I thought you'd seen a bider.'

  'Bider or spider?'

  'Don't even say the word.'

  'I didn't know you were an arachnophobe.'

  'Oh, yes,' he said. 'I can't even look at pictures.'

  'I don't think I've ever seen one in Africa.'

  'If you're scared of them they find you.'

  He took the gin and tonic. I settled for the usual.

  'Have you eaten?'

  'No,' he said, tasting the gin and tonic and drawing a couple of fingers down the ridge running from his hairline to his nose.

  'Nor have I. The guy who was supposed to buy me dinner got kidnapped.'

  'It really needs lemon, doesn't it?' he said, holding out his glass, his fingers rubbing at the scar on h
is chin. I found three slices of cling-wrapped lemon on a saucer and offered him one. Bagado took it, shrugging his mac up, getting used to a bit of luxury, some service around here. He sipped the drink again.

  'Now we're there,' he said. 'Were you supposed to be protecting him?'

  'Accompanying him. To make sure he didn't get into trouble.'

  'Like biders and me, Bruce. Trouble always finds you.'

  'D'you think I'm in the wrong business?'

  'No, no, the right business. No trouble, no job.'

  'Well, I'm getting plenty of it now. What happened with you and Adabraka Video?'

  'Abracadabra Video, Adabraka, Accra.'

  'How many "A"s is that?'

  'Eleven,' he said, taking a good pull of his gin and tonic. 'Chairman and Managing Director: Matthew Paul Thompson.'

  'Chairman,' I said, 'and he didn't want to call himself Fat Mat.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'His name's Fat Paul. Fat Matthew's a little weak and Fat Mat, well...'

  'When I was a detective,' he said, looking wistful, 'I was paid respect. Now I'm a private dick, people feel they can express themselves.'

  'Sorry, Bagado.'

  'No, not just you. The public. It's becoming clear that I have no authority, no position. This American expression "gumshoe" disturbs me. It sounds very low. Beneath the shoe is a gumshoe. I've ceased to evolve as a life form.' He took out his notebook. 'Where were we? Yes. Abracadabra Video. The premises were firebombed on Saturday night, twenty-sixth October. Nobody hurt. Stock destroyed.'

  'That's two nights before Fat Paul, George and Kwabena were found dead, their stomachs ripped open by a metal leopard claw. The night after a Liberian called James Wilson was found in the water near Treichville in the same state and the night before a Dane called Kurt Nielsen was found dead in a Toyota Land Cruiser outside Abidjan.'

  'In the same state?'

  'Not when I saw him. They came back later and opened him up.'

  'Explain.'

  I did.

  'What was on the cassette?'

  'Porn. Hard-core. Full penetration. Two black guys, a white girl and a white guy, but the white guy only had a walk-on part. Low-quality entertainment, but I kept a copy for you just in case.'

  'In case?'

  'You might recognize someone.'

  'It sounds a little more serious than blackmail.'

  'Maybe the girl's a Hollywood star now, Mafia backed, and they don't want some of her earlier, cheaper work coming on to the market.'

  'I don't know any Hollywood stars. No television.'

  'Just kidding, Bagado.'

  'No. It's a good theory. There may be something in it.'

  'Forget it.'

  'You didn't look inside the tape, did you?'

  'As a matter of fact, I did. Nothing. Just tape.'

  'That was very good,' he said, holding out his glass. 'But maybe I need some food, I can feel myself getting emotional. You didn't happen to notice my self-pitying outburst earlier?'

  'Yes. You didn't happen to notice that I used to be a businessman until I met you.'

  'You are right. I have brought you down low.'

  'I used to have a girlfriend who lived in the same country, too.'

  'Ah. Yes. We are seeking to apportion blame here. Perhaps the way to the truth lies not in "strong dring" as my fellow churchmen might say.' He held up his glass.

  I ordered a couple of hamburgers from room service and made more drinks. Bagado gave me his notes on Fat Paul.

  'He's Liberian. Moved to Accra from Lagos four years ago. Still has a video business in Lagos. I haven't covered it yet. I need some money to do that and a motive.'

  'A motive?'

  'Why are we doing this?'

  'I said I'd deliver Eugene Amos Gilbert to the police within ten days.'

  'OK, and...?'

  'We're following through with the Fat Paul business because there might be leads to the Kurt Nielsen killing.'

  'You were hired to give him the sack. The job seems to have been completed with the minimum of fuss. Need we meddle further?' he asked, smiling into his glass, nearly biting off the rim.

  'Kurt Nielsen has a wife or partner, or whatever they're called these days.'

  'Ah, you feel some responsibility to her?'

  'I haven't met her yet, but yes, maybe.'

  'What about the fellow who was kidnapped?'

  'Ron Collins. My guess is it's Liberian rebels. There's a Liberian connection in this.'

  'That's what I wanted to know.'

  'Yes, the connections...'

  'No, the motivation. You're getting the detective disease. "I have to know but"'—he held up a finger and sipped his drink—'"I'm not letting anybody else spoil the fun." You have to tell your partner what's going on.'

  'I'm not holding back on you.'

  'Maybe not intentionally, maybe not yet, but later you might. I'm getting my retaliation in first.'

  I told Bagado everything there was to know about the Fat Paul drop and the envelope addressed to Kantari, but not about the unopened package Fat Paul had given me which was still taped behind the car's glove compartment. I wanted to keep my options open on that, something Bagado wouldn't let me do. There I was, holding back already. I told him what I thought of Ron Collins, Sean Malahide, the Alfas, Borema and Rademakers. I filled him in on Martin Fall, Leif Andersen and the double death of Kurt Nielsen, and about his wife, Dotte Wamberg.

  The hamburgers arrived with a plate of chips. They rattled down into Bagado's stomach like rubble down a plastic chute into an empty skip. It all took seconds. He lay back down on the bed.

  'Fat Paul,' said Bagado weakly, a little faint from the food daze, 'as far as the people in Accra know, and they should know, because they're the police and they've been digging in people's dirt since Independence ... They tell me that Fat Paul was clean. He imported pornography from, they're not sure where, they think America and Germany, but nothing nasty. All consenting-adults type of thing. His video cinema business did well, he had the occasional problem with people muscling in but nobody was ever hurt badly. He, listen to this ... he imported turkey tails from UK and France.'

  'Turkey tails?'

  'Parsons' noses.'

  'What do they do with turkey tails?'

  'Deep fry them in palm oil and eat them with hot pepper sauce.'

  'You've tried one?'

  'Very fatty.'

  'What else?'

  'He bought fish from the Russians. They have factory ships off the coast. He bought lump sugar off someone else, but I can't read my writing.'

  'What sort of diet is that for a business?'

  'Quite.'

  'Was he making money?'

  'Yes, but not what you'd call cream.'

  'Did you see where he lived?'

  'He had a rented house in Cantonments. Up Liberation Road to the airport, off on the right somewhere. A smart place, not far from the'—he slowed—'Liberian Embassy.'

  'I see.'

  'They tell me he normally drives a black 1950s Cadillac. There was an old Jaguar in the garage. The house itself was furnished how you'd expect a pornographer's to be furnished. Imitation tiger-skin seat covers, shag-pile carpet in white, matching blue glass dolphins on the sideboard, a statuette of Elvis, a blowup of Marilyn Monroe on the wall. That one of her standing over the grating with the hot air going up her dress. A cardboard cutout of Aretha Franklin and the only bizarre thing—a lot of bodybuilding magazines.'

  'Maybe he buys food supplements through them, keep his weight up,' I said. 'Had the place been searched?'

  'Yes. A little more subtle than the firebomb. Professional. Didn't touch a thing.'

  'How did you know it had been searched?'

  'It looked tense and there wasn't a single video in the place.

  Think.'

  'Somebody goes into the Abracadabra offices and finds a couple of thousand videos there. He can't search so he firebombs. Then he goes to the house and takes what he can
find. Is there anything political with Fat Paul?'

  'Don't know. I didn't know about the James Wilson angle then. I'll call Accra tomorrow.'

  I opened up Martin Fall's fax message and read it out to Bagado.

  'The Alfas live on the corner of Avenue eighteen and Rue twenty-three in Treichville. No phone. Contact was through an intermediary, a Lebanese called Elias Hadet of Hadet Kalmoni SA, Imm. Alfa two thousand, Boulevard de la République, Abidjan.'

  'We'll talk to M. Hadet tomorrow, and the Alfas too,' said Bagado.

  'I'm going to have to go to Korhogo tomorrow, pick up Dotte Wamberg and bring her back here to identify the body. You've got Accra and Lagos to call. We can fit the Alfas in on the way to the airport. Can you track down Malahide? There should be some leftovers from the conference who can help you. He wasn't a blender, Malahide. He was a clasher. You're bound to find someone who hated his guts. Rademakers, damn, there's Rademakers too. Maybe we do Treichville first thing. The hospital afterwards. It could be tight for a ten o'clock flight.'

  'You won't take off before midday.'

  'Sleep?'

  'I'm awake now,' he said, and walked to the door. He fished in his pocket and came up with a letter. 'Don't hold back on me, Bruce. I know you are, I know you've got something. Tell me about it ... soon.' He threw me the letter and left.

  The letter landed on the empty bed, German stamp, Berlin postmark, Heike. I didn't want all that now, to read it and let it burn a hole in the bits of sleep I was still getting. I stripped and cleaned up and lay on the bed with a glass, the bottom painted amber, what the French call un fond.

  White square on the dark counterpane. I turned the light out. It was still there, maybe answers inside it to questions I didn't even know about, maybe just more questions, no answers, maybe the kiss-off, maybe some well-worn clichés and then the kiss-off. I turned the light on. The letter was written a week after she'd flown back and it was short, thank Christ, no streams of heart-pouring consciousness.

  Berlin, 15th October

  Dear Bruce,

  I'm working at my mother's café. A double shift which uses up the days, six in the morning to midnight with a break 3.00 to 6.00 in the afternoon and I walk all over Berlin. West to East, East to West. I still can't believe we can do that now. I keep moving. If I had sharper teeth and a predatory nature I'd say I was a shark, just moving to stay alive and keep the water running through my gills. I don't feel like a shark. I only say it because I feel isolated and lonely here in Berlin, where it can rain for a week without stopping. Damn. I wasn't going to use that word 'feel', nor 'emotion', nor 'relationship' but there you are—feelings everywhere.