Chapter 9

November 12. 16:15 SAST, Private villa, Bantry Bay, Cape Town.

Proceeding through to the dining room, Roxy and Rashaad were stunned with the spread laid out on the side tables. We were ten in the room, and the table could accommodate fifteen people. Nonetheless, the table was laid out for ten, and the side tables along the wall had a selection of finger foods and dishes for a buffet get-together.

For starters, we could choose from a Greek Salad with honey and mustard dressing, Prawn Rissole, Chicken Spring Roll, and Mince Samoosa with a spicy dipping sauce. The main meal consisted of grilled medallions of beef with cracked black pepper sauce, sautéed potato, and roasted seasonal vegetables.

Angie, Darya, and Nadia’s eyes glimmered at the selection of desserts: white chocolate cup with dark chocolate mousse; bread and butter pudding with vanilla custard; and sticky toffee pudding served with toffee cream.

Roxy whispered to Angie: “I think I’ll go on a diet from tomorrow, but I’m making a pig out of myself. I’m having some of all of those desserts!”

Angie giggled, “Go for it, Sister, you can afford to. And I think I’m going to join you!”

Leah, Olivia, Lorie and Darya disappeared up the stairs to go and change into their “party outfits.” Mai-Loan came over to me and reached up on tiptoe, to whisper into my ear. It was the first time I saw Mai-Loan in high heels, but they didn’t increase her height by much.

“That place on Buitengracht street where we ordered this food thought we were crazy to order all this food for only ten people,” she whispered, “I had to convince them a bit because they take orders like this only with seven days advance notice.”

“But you did convince them,” I whispered back.

“Yeah. The ‘Mai-Loan charm’ works every time.” Giggle.

“You live here, Mister Smith?” Rashaad walked up to me, with a tumbler of Glen Grant in his hand.

“No, Lofty. I just rented it during my stay here in Cape Town. And please, call me Joe.”

“Thanks, Joe. This is a nice place. I have a few places of my own, but nothing like this place.”

“Yeah, big enough to keep all my guards close at hand.” I fibbed. Rashaad need to be misled a bit. “I also have an alternate place or two, but as you say, not as big as this one.”

“You, plus seven beautiful girls! Wow! Maybe I must think of getting some of the prettier gender to adorn my place. But then again, I would need a bigger place as well,” Rashaad chuckled.

“These girls are highly trained and multi-skilled. Don’t underestimate them.” I reminded him, taking a sip of my Glenfiddich. “So far, their services have been nothing to complain about.

Either the double entendre went over Rashaad’s head, or he made no move to acknowledge it.

“The two red heads. Although they look alike, they are not sisters, are they?”

“No,” I chuckled. “Angie is from Namibia, and Nadia from Poland. Not sisters, but when we found Nadia, we employed her as Angie and Heidi’s look-a-like. It sometimes helps, if I need a red head in two or three places at once.”

“You had me fooled! And the other one, the other red head who had to leave?”

“Oh, Adelheid, or Heidi, as she is known, she’s Angie’s twin sister,” I fibbed again. I better warn Angie about her “sister,” and her sister’s name.

“It would have been fun to see all three together,” Rashaad said.

“I told you, you would have been the object of mischief during the evening. Heidi is the naughty one, always leading the other two in the pranks and mischief. But leave them for a moment. Would you care to join me in the study? I have something to show you.”

“Please, Joe. Lead the way.”

I turned and led him upstairs to a room I rigged as a study.

We entered the room, and I led Rashaad over to a large TV set. “Now, look at the video. It is only six minutes long, but tell me what you see.” I rolled the video, and Rashaad stared at the screen, his whisky in his hand forgotten.

The video played out and Rashaad turned to me.

“That looks like some blokes packing boxes,” Rashaad said.

“Not just any boxes. Those were laptops and cell phones, stolen from a warehouse in Epping.”

Rashaad’s face went pale.

“And how did you get hold of the video?”

“I suspect those same guys you saw on the video stole a BMW X6 as well, then tried to cross the border into Swaziland with the stuff.”

Rashaad looked at me, his eyes dull. “Laptops, cell phones and a BMW, you say...? How do you know about it?”

“I know a lot of things, Lofty. But to come back to the border incident, someone tipped off the fuzz. They found a matchbook from your club inside the BMW,” I said and looked for a reaction from Rashaad. He just sighed and sat down on an easy chair next to the big window of the study.

“You, Joe, know more about the incident than I do. I don’t even want to guess where you laid your hands on that video ... But it was not my men,” He said softly.

“They were Yakuza. Japanese. And I don’t think you have Japanese in your employment,” I said, then took a sip of my whisky and sat down in the chair opposite him.

“What I’m going to tell you, stays between us,” Rashaad said at length.

“What you say to me, stays within these walls,” I repeated, indicating to Rashaad that I was sincere and would treat what he said with respect. I say with respect, because I needed to report to Grumpy. Especially the part of the “man on the inside,” as well as the supply of “objects.” Could it be the missing firearms that were intended to go for destruction?

Rashaad took a long time in collecting his thoughts. He took several sips of his whisky. Then he kept looking into his glass as he spoke.

“I have a friend on the inside of the SAPS. He supplies me with information and the odd object or two. In my kind of business, it is a question of survival. I have to have a link to proactively warn me of stuff that goes on, stuff that might concern me. Therefore, I knew about the break-in and the BMW. I know that it was recovered at the Oshoek border post. I also know that neither I, nor any of my partners, embarked on that incident. How the matchbook with my club logo on it got in that car, I don’t know. Now that I’ve seen the video, I have my suspicions.”

“Japanese. The Yakuza, to be precise. I just have to make the connection between the Yakuza and you.”

“I don’t know them!”

“I suspected that, Rashaad, Lofty. That is one of the reasons I invited you over. I think mister Nakamura is in on this deal, and I know why,” I said.

“Why? He wants to do business with me. Why should he incriminate me in a scam like this?”

“Because you pulled out of the abduction of Amirah.”

“What?”

“I told you, the Japanese want to take over the drug trade in Cape Town. When you refused to help him with kidnapping Amirah, or Mai-Loan as he mistakenly thinks, he upped his game. He wants you out of the way, Lofty. Believe me.”

“You say it was not this Amirah who killed his father?”

“No, it was not Amirah. She was not even in Japan at that time. As a matter of fact, she did not leave South Africa.”

“You said you know things? Do you know who killed his father?”

“No conclusive evidence, but I do suspect it was a Japanese girl, hired by a rival syndicate in Japan.” I fibbed again.

“And his business associate, the one in Botswana?”

“Collateral damage. The guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. His own fault.”

“But Amirah was involved?”

“She worked under contract for the Botswana government. She was a back seat weapons officer and radar operator in the one aircraft that did the strike on the ivory smuggling gang’s camp.”

“Oh. That makes sense. And her being multi-skilled is also a fact. Security for you, and flying aircraft.” Rashaad said.

I did not comment on the fact that a RIO ain’t a pilot. Rashaad did not need to know.

“She didn’t even know the guy was on the ground in the camp. He died in the rocket attack. As I said, the wrong place at the wrong time, and that makes you wonder why he was there, in the first place.”

“So, what can I do?”

“Leave that plan to me, Lofty. Let me think about it and get back to you. But I don’t think you need to worry about it. The evidence doesn’t point to you. Anyone could have gotten that matchbook and dropped it in the car.”

“Why do you want to get involved? What is your agenda?”

“That I can’t tell you now, Lofty. Not now. Just trust me. It may be beneficial to you,” I said and drained my glass. “Shall we get back to the girls before they get into too much mischief from being left alone?”

“Yes. Let’s go. But promise me that you won’t say anything to Roxy.”

“I won’t. Our discussion is between you and me, and these walls.”

“Thanks!” Rashaad said and drained his whisky. He did not look relieved, but he did not look troubled either.

Coming down the stairs, I spotted Angie about to go into the kitchen. “Angie,” I called. “Or is it you Nadia?”

“It’s ME, Angelique, Bonehead!” Angie retorted, and her eyes flashed fake fire. Rashaad saw it and chuckled.

“I need to ask you something...”

“Then come speak to me in the kitchen!”

“Pardon me, Lofty, I need to speak with Angie.”

“It’s good, Joe. Let me go see what Roxy is up to.” And he went back into the dining room.

Giggle. “Now what do you want to tell me?” Angie asked.

“Your twin sister, the one that left for Gauteng. Her name is Heidi.”

Giggle. “Now I get to play two roles.”

“Just remember; Heidi went to Gauteng.”

“She is so close to you, it’s like she is part of you.” I said, knowing well her full name as I knew her intimately, “See you in the dining room,” and I kissed her on the cheek, and went back to the guests in the dining room. Outside, the Cape storm was raging full blast. Occasional lightning lighted up the clouds, but no visible sign of the lightning bolts could be seen.

Cape Town is like this. When there’s a thunderstorm, lightning is a little absent. Only the occasional fireworks lighting up the clouds and a little rumbling, were any indication that there was a thunderstorm. Normally, it would only be thick dark clouds, high wind, and lashing rain.

November 12. 19:05 SAST, Arthur’s Club, Long Street, Cape Town.

Daiki sat motionless with no expression on his face, but inside he was boiling. How could this be possible? The instructions were clear. Watch the Cape Flats guy’s club. If the coon moves, see where he goes.

Now the rental car lies at the bottom of a hill, one guy in hospital with serious injuries, and two guys looking very sorry for themselves, standing in his office covered in bandages, and red-coloured disinfecting ointment. How did this happen and how were they spotted?

“Tell me how this happened,” Daiki growled.

“Boss, the blue Nissan came out of nowhere. A small woman leaned out the window and shot our tire out. There was nothing I could do. I was about to fire on the car, but hesitated, I thought it was just someone that wanted to overtake us.”

“Overtake you on a corner, on a hairpin bend going downhill in the rain!” Daiki shouted.

“Well ... I did not recognize any of the two women in the car.”

“Go! Go get patched up!” Daiki said and dismissed the two stupid asses. Now this is war. Obviously, Williams had a car following him. The Cape Flats coon is slyer than he thought. The guy comes across as a fool, but it is only an illusion. Williams is someone to not underestimate.

But how come does he use white women unless ... unless, that Vietnamese bitch was involved in it? That must be it. The Vietnamese bitch is somehow involved. No wonder that Williams doesn’t want to help in the capture of the bitch. Yes, that’s it. The bitch is in cahoots with Williams. That’s why there are white women involved. And that man who was with the bitch? Somehow, he is also involved; maybe the boss-man himself.

He must find her. He must find out WHY she keeps popping up. What is her interest in this, or is she just a gun for hire for that man that was with her the other night? That night she was also involved in outwitting the street gang members. She is dangerous. Very dangerous. Is this why everyone tells him to lay off? To hell with everyone! He will pursue her to the end of the world ... and kill her!

Daiki got up and went over to the liquor cabinet. Opening the cabinet, he selected a bottle of whisky and poured himself a generous measure into a glass. Next, he went back to his desk, lifted the telephone, and punched a number. It is time to call in a professional. Someone who works alone and works in the dark. Someone who will get results. Although he is a little indisposed now, incarcerated at Kgosi Mampuru Maximum Prison in Pretoria, Alexander Baranowski would know who to get to help him clear up this mess. Alex would put him in touch with someone who will find the bitch and her comrades!

The phone rang ... Daiki waited for someone to answer...

November 12. 19:20 SAST, Kgosi Mampuru Maximum Prison, Pretoria.

Lying on the steel-frame bed with just a thick foam rubber mattress beneath him, the Baron looked up at the yellow painted concrete ceiling above him. The cell, 13 feet long, 7 feet wide and 8 feet high, is literally, a cage; the total expanse of his world. There’s a silver stainless steel toilet in the corner, with a silver stainless steel wash basin.

Twelve white square bathroom tiles against the yellow concrete wall above the washbasin were trying to do their best to look decorative and stop water splashing against the wall.

As so many times before, Alex saw the unevenness of the tiles, the missing piece of grout between the second and third tile from the top, and the surface crack on the middle tile. For the umpteenth time he wondered what happened to the left bottom edge of the left bottom tile. There was a chip gone from the tile edge, showing a dark discolouration on the otherwise white tile.

The two taps there were just that: taps giving water. One tap is supposed to be hot water, but with the mass of bodies inside of “C Max,” the tap only produces lukewarm water if you are lucky and get up early or wait till after lights out.

Then there was the damn continues drip from the cold water tap. It doesn’t Matter how tight he closes the tap, it keeps on dripping. Drip, drip, drip, right through the day and night. He’s reported it, but these guys take forever to fix it. Drip, drip, drip, for the last two years now, driving him insane. Well, he learned to sleep with the pillow on his head, but despite smothering him somewhat, he does seem to get in some sleep.

Lights out only means lights out in the cells. The passage outside the cell is still brightly lit, and to get any sleep, one has to call the guard to close the solid steel door outside of the steel bar cell door.

The high grid-barred, and steel shuttered window had blue curtains like the bedsheets and bed cover, all blue and printed in endless circular logos of the prison. But the blanket was grey, and hard and scratchy like steel-wool.

Two three-point power outlets were screwed to the wall; all painted yellow. The towels and washcloth were brown. The only other furniture in the room was a yellow steel cabinet with silver stainless steel top.

This had been his world for the last six years, with another six to go. Maybe, just maybe he could swing parole in another few months, but that would mean that he could not leave South Africa. However, if he consents to be deported he could go back to Mother Russia. It is a move he would consider. Anything to get out of this confinement.

From Russia, he could go to the Caribbean. Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, or Cuba. Any place will do. He can disappear in the masses there, no one to bug him, and he can live out his days on the Islands.

The only other possessions of personal nature were a small FM radio and some books and magazines stacked neatly on the cabinet. All his personal clothing was taken away and stored. His cash money, wallet, watch, shoes, socks and belt were also taken away and stored until his release on some future date. After the personal items were taken, he was issued with three orange coveralls; all stencilled in that bloody prison logo in black. All over the material of the overalls. No one could miss it. He was branded!

A small victory was that he got hold of a cell phone. These gadgets were illegal; not allowed in prison at all, but running with the right inside crowd and doing little favours for the wardens makes life a little easier on the inside.

Again, the memories of his arrest, court case and incarceration came to him. He had been stupid; the biggest mistake of his life. Alexander Baranowski — the Baron — was outwitted by a simple asshole pilot who fell in love with a fourteen-year-old redhead, green-eyed, Irish bitch. The bitch was worth a couple of hundred thousand dollars on the “trade” market; the sex slave market.

The bitch was to be gotten back at all costs or terminated before she could talk. Unfortunately, he missed the shot at her. And obviously, she did talk to that damn pilot.

His job was to get the bitch back for the “organization,” after she was “lost” by some imbeciles who did not think. Or, he had to terminate her if he could not recover her. Then he fell into the trap that that asshole pilot set up. A truck full of blow-up sex-dolls and mannequins! Oh, how he would like to get back at that asshole.

He must let it go, but that is so hard!

He was paid good money to work for the “organization,” and had it all saved in a Swiss numbered account. At least he will have money when he is released. Mister X is also not around anymore. No, he got terminated too. Was it the Vietnamese bitch who also killed Ludwig? Too many unanswered questions. It makes his head hurt.

Alex wondered how old the Irish bitch would be now. Twenty? Yes, the Irish bitch will now be about twenty or twenty-one and will be worth less now. She probably would not even be a virgin now. She certainly would be worth less than a fourteen-year-old virgin.

Then his hidden cell phone vibrated. Alex looked at the display. Unknown number. He felt like not answering, but yet, it could be important.