The Devil’s Kingdom

Chapter 11

It was lunchtime in Kinshasa, too, and the bar at the Grand Hotel in the Presidential district of Gombe was crowded with well-to-do locals, bureaucrats and visiting business executives. It was more or less the most prestigious environment that the capital had to offer, even if the electricity went off several times a day, and César Masango fitted into it well. He was perfectly groomed in a handsomely tailored double-breasted suit of light grey silk, tan leather brogues polished into mirrors, and a Rolex Daytona that was even bigger and glitzier than the model that his friend and business associate, Jean-Pierre Khosa, liked to flash around. None of the corporate types milling around him could have guessed that he’d returned only hours ago from a militarised stronghold deep in the jungle. Any more than they could have guessed what his business was here today in the city.

Masango and his two associates had occupied a corner table by the window, where they sat in silence as Masango scanned the busy street and sipped on an $8 cappuccino. His associates didn’t get any, because they weren’t paid to eat, drink, or speak on his time unless specifically permitted.

Masango was waiting for Marius Grobler, a fifty-six-year-old white South African who labelled himself a consultant in international import/export but who was in fact a criminal fence specialising in converting dubiously obtained diamonds, gold and other such high-end commodities into untraceable cash. He was effective, discreet, and had been the first name to come up when discussing the various options for selling Jean-Pierre’s wonderful new acquisition.

The purchase deal had been brokered on Khosa’s behalf by Masango, his political attaché. ‘Political attaché’ might have been an accurate term, if indeed Khosa had anything much to do with politics — which for the moment he did not, although that didn’t deter Khosa’s small but rapidly growing legion of followers from viewing César Masango as the man who would one day put their exalted leader in power. While both men believed that day would eventually come (and all the sooner now that Khosa was set to become much richer), for the moment Masango was happy to act as his universal aide, fixer and back-door man. In return for these services, he received more than the General’s gratitude and the future promise of a top ministerial job when Khosa grabbed the presidency. For brokering this deal, setting up the meeting with Grobler in Kinshasa and attending to all associated matters, Masango’s slice of the diamond sale proceeds would be a lordly five per cent. Which was as generous a percentage as anyone was likely to get from Khosa; in this case, anyhow, it still amounted to a nice little payday for César.

Besides, as only he and Khosa knew, this wouldn’t be a one-off payment. Far from it.

Grobler arrived in a shiny X3 BMW, with three large, unsmiling white subordinates who shadowed him like the bodyguards they in fact were as he entered the hotel lobby and was warmly met by César Masango. The South African was carrying a large silver case attached to his left wrist. He was a slight man and clearly struggling with its weight, but not about to entrust such a valuable load to a helper. His manner was gruff and brusque as he and Masango shook hands. His pale-grey eyes darted left and right as if looking for someone. ‘I’d understood your client was to meet me in person,’ he said, a little nonplussed.

Not missing a beat, Masango smiled and informed him that there had been a slight change of plan, and the meeting was now to be held elsewhere. ‘For security reasons,’ he explained vaguely. ‘I hope you understand. We received reports of a potential confidentiality leak.’

‘Not from my side, there isn’t,’ Grobler snorted. ‘I hope your client isn’t backing out on me here. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange the funds at such short notice. This isn’t the kind of money I normally carry around with me, you know?’

‘Please be assured, Mr Grobler,’ Masango replied with another charming smile, ‘that the meeting will proceed exactly as intended. It will be my pleasure to take you to him. However, unfortunately, also for security reasons, my client stipulates that you attend the meeting alone.’

Grobler didn’t take this well. ‘These men are my trusted associates. I have no secrets from them.’ Which was blatantly untrue, of course. The men were paid thugs with no knowledge of the deal and nothing to think about except how to keep their employer in one piece if things went south. That possibility was an ever-present occupational hazard in Grobler’s line of work and he had long since learned to be careful.

‘I am sorry,’ Masango said. ‘I am instructed that if this condition is not met, the meeting is cancelled. My client was very specific on this point. It is, as you say, a deal breaker.’

Grobler quickly considered what he had to lose by missing out, then grunted, ‘Very well. But my associates will accompany me to this alternative venue of yours, and wait outside while we do business. Okay?’

Masango shook his head. ‘Again, I am afraid that is not possible. Your associates may remain here at the hotel during the meeting. They are welcome to have lunch, at our expense of course. We will return you here once our business is concluded.’

As deeply unhappy as he was to have had the goalposts moved on him, Grobler agreed to the new terms rather than let the deal slip away from him. The asking price set by Masango’s anonymous client was, in relative terms, so absurdly low — assuming that the goods were as described, which he would check thoroughly before handing over the money — that the South African stood to rake a fortune from the transaction. He wasn’t about to be deterred from such an opportunity. Therefore, doing all he could to hide his anxiety, he instructed his bodyguards to stay put. Lugging his heavy case he followed Masango and his men outside to the black Mercedes Viano six-seater MPV parked behind the Beemer. The solid lump of the Walther automatic nestling concealed under his jacket was something of a solace.

Masango’s men climbed into the front of the Mercedes. Masango politely ushered Grobler into the back. Grobler hesitated, then climbed in and sat on the plush leather seat with the case between his feet. The moment they got moving, Masango said, ‘I must ask you if you are armed, Mr Grobler. If so, please be so good as to let me have your weapon for a moment. I apologise for this intrusion, but my client is most particular.’

Grobler had no choice but to let Masango have the gun. Masango received it with a gracious smile, dropped out the magazine, emptied the chamber, and returned the empty pistol to him. ‘You will have the bullets back later,’ he assured him.

They drove for nearly half an hour through the wild Kinshasa traffic, dodging taxis and the yellow buses that ploughed the roads at high speed with little regard for human life. The paramilitary police presence was everywhere, but as no elections were currently taking place no actual tanks were rolling through the streets to quell the usual violent civil disturbances. Like so many African cities Kinshasa was a study in extremes, with great wealth and miserable poverty existing side by side. And it was southwards, away from the tree-lined boulevards, expensive villas, and high-rises towards the poorer districts where the local ‘Kinois’ lived in varying degrees of tin-roofed squalor on unpaved streets, that Grobler found himself being driven. It wasn’t what he’d expected, and he was increasingly restless. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he kept asking, but Masango just smiled and kept assuring him that they were nearly there.

The car finally pulled up in a suburb of decaying concrete-block homes, where a feral gang of street kids were taking turns at smashing up a derelict car across the street with a sledgehammer. They fled at the approach of the Mercedes, which parked behind an unmarked black panel van in front of a dingy house. ‘What the hell is this bloody place?’ Grobler demanded. Masango stepped out of the car and motioned for him to follow. Grobler hesitated, thought of the money and swallowed hard. There was no turning back now.

Masango led the way inside the house. Grobler, case in hand, found himself in a room with peeling walls, a single table and chair and two large black men flanking the doorway. Neither of them spoke to him as he walked in, and neither looked like a man with a Jaffa-sized uncut diamond to sell. Odours of mould and rat piss hung thick in the air.

‘Okay, so where’s your client?’ Grobler demanded, working hard to keep his composure. ‘You told me he’d be here. What kind of bullshit are you shovelling on me?’

‘I am authorised to act as his agent,’ Masango said calmly. ‘You will be dealing with me.’

‘You mean he’s not even coming? This is fucked, man. I’m not prepared to do business under these conditions, hear me? Take me back to the hotel. Right away.’

‘Mr Grobler, please. Do not make this difficult. Now, I would like to see the money.’

‘It’s all here,’ Grobler said angrily. ‘Five million US dollars. But you’re not seeing a damned penny of it until I see the diamond. Come on, man. That was the deal.’

‘Of course. We will take you to it after we finish counting the payment.’

Grobler stared. His heart was beginning to thud. ‘Now wait a minute—’

‘Please open the case,’ Masango said quietly. When Grobler hesitated just a fraction too long, Masango gave a nod to one of the heavies. The big black man reached under his jacket and pulled out a huge, wide-bladed cleaver. Masango pointed at the chain and cuff securing the case to Grobler’s wrist. ‘I am sure you would rather open it yourself than have us relieve you of it in a more unpleasant fashion.’ He wasn’t talking about cutting the chain. Meat and bone were much easier to chop with a single blow.

Blinking sweat from his eyes and in danger of letting go of his bowels, Grobler heaved the case onto the table, turned the combination dials to the number that his panicked mind had almost forgotten, and flipped open the locks. He understood enough to know that the business deal had become a robbery, but at this point he no longer cared about the diamond. The trade was now the money for his life, and he was all too willing to sacrifice five million in order to be able to walk out of here. He’d worry about the crippling financial loss later, once he was home safe with a stiff drink.

The big thug with the knife hovered menacingly while Masango stepped forward to count out the blocks of cash crammed inside. Each was tightly compressed in plastic wrap. He used a pocket knife to slice one open at random and thumbed the banknotes with a practised hand, nodded to himself and examined several more before he seemed satisfied that it was all there.

At last, Masango looked up from the table with a smile to the red-faced Grobler. The South African was dripping sweat. It was staining through his shirt. Masango said, ‘Very good. General Khosa thanks you for the donation to his cause.’

It was Khosa himself who had come up with the scheme. He’d begun this enterprise with every intention of selling the diamond on, for an accordingly reduced sum that reflected its nature as a hot item of stolen property. It was only after owning the fabulous object for a couple of days and falling in love with its beauty that he’d realised there was another, much better, way to raise revenue from it. Every criminal diamond fence in Africa would jump at the chance to acquire it at a bargain price, knowing that even as stolen goods they could pass it down the line for a vast profit margin. Its enormous size allowed it to be broken down into a good number of stones that, once cut, would each be unusually large in its own right. Being crooks themselves, they naturally would tell nobody of the wonderful opportunity that had come their way.

Idiots. The lure of the diamond would reel them in, like lambs to the slaughter, one after another. Five million dollars multiplied by the number of greedy fools who would fall for the trick could generate a sum well in excess of what the rock was actually worth, while Khosa still got to keep it for himself. It was the kind of simple, brutal little scam that the General loved.

Of course, once the money had changed hands there was the issue of making sure the fences kept their mouths shut. That was the easy part.

Grobler gaped, too winded with horror to utter a sound, as Masango picked a large empty holdall from the floor by the table and started transferring the money into it. Cramming in the last stack with some difficulty, he zipped the holdall shut and hauled it off the table. Masango then left the room, closing the door behind him. Grobler now found himself alone with Masango’s thugs. All four of them were suddenly clutching knives and advancing on him with stone faces.

And now he did let go of his bowels.

‘Please,’ he croaked, holding out his hands in supplication as he backed away, with nowhere to go. ‘Please.’

The four men closed in on him. They made it quick, not out of mercy for their victim but simply because the sooner they got it done, the sooner they would receive their tiny cut of the money.

When they’d finished with Grobler, they sheathed their knives, waited for Masango to unlock the door and then left the house. Moments after the Mercedes and the black van had gone, the street kids returned to continue bashing the derelict car. It would be a long time before anyone found the body inside the empty house. And even when whatever remains the rats had left were discovered, nobody would care. This was Africa, and no one had a deeper understanding of that fact than Jean-Pierre Khosa and his associates.