The Devil’s Kingdom

Chapter 57

Victor Bronski was the seasoned veteran of enough stakeouts to harden most sensibilities, but more than forty hours without a break stuck inside this van in this shitty street in this shitty city in this shitty godforsaken country, baking by day and freezing by night, pissing in a bottle and having to use a goddamned portapotty for the other, was getting to be wearisome even for him. At least he was alone in the van. Being forced to share with Gasser, Shelton or Jungmayr, any of them, would probably have ended with him shooting someone.

César Masango hadn’t re-emerged from his house the entire time. No phone calls, no activity, nothing. So many times, Bronski had been on the verge of ordering his team to go in, snatch Masango and his wife Olive and whisk them off someplace more private to find out what the man knew about Jean-Pierre Khosa’s whereabouts — more precisely, the whereabouts of Eugene Svalgaard’s lusted-after diamond. But something kept holding Bronski back from giving the order. He didn’t know what, but he trusted his instincts.

Then at 9.42 that morning, those instincts were finally proven correct when Masango received a phone call that woke Bronski out of his boredom like a bucket of ice water. The caller wasn’t Khosa, but as Bronski listened in on his earpiece he quickly realised it was the next best thing.

‘This is André Zandu over in Brazzaville,’ the caller began. ‘You know who I am?’

‘Of course,’ Masango replied hesitantly. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Chief Zandu?’

Bronski’s eyes narrowed as he clocked that one. Chief Zandu. A cop? Go figure.

‘Something has come into my possession that I believe concerns you,’ Zandu said. ‘Something of value.’ He paused. ‘Very considerable value.’

Masango’s voice became flustered. ‘I see… ah… Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I mean, how did this item of value come to you? And when, and from whom?’

‘From a foreigner,’ Zandu said. ‘His name is…’ A rustle of paper. ‘Arundel, Jude Arundel.’ Zandu spelled it.

Bronski thought he almost heard Masango flinch at the sound of the name. Whoever this Arundel character might be, Bronski had no idea. This was something new. But Masango knew who he was, all right. And there was little doubt in Bronski’s mind what item of value was being discussed here.

The trail of the diamond was suddenly glowing red-hot once more.

Except this was an unexpected development, and Bronski didn’t care much for surprises. He had assumed that Masango and his buddy Khosa had been holding on to the rock this whole time. Now it sounded like this Arundel guy had somehow got his hands on it. If that information was news to Masango, then Bronski could only suppose that Arundel must have nabbed it from Khosa personally. And recently, explaining why Masango hadn’t been kept in the loop.

Dangerous business. Arundel had balls of brass, whoever he was.

‘And the diam— the item?’ Masango sounded like he was having palpitations.

‘I am looking at it right now, here in my office,’ Zandu answered coolly.

The incredulity in Masango’s voice reached a new pitch. ‘You mean he gave it to you? Just like that? He wanted nothing in exchange?’

‘No, he walked into my police headquarters forty-five minutes ago, asked to see the chief and told me he wanted to turn it over to the authorities, so that it could be returned to its proper owner. And then he left.’

Bronski couldn’t believe his ears any more than Masango could. What kind of fuckin’ retard would risk his life to snatch a rock worth upwards of half a billion bucks from a psycho maniac like Jean-Pierre Khosa and then turn it in, gratis, just like that, to the cops? It would be a dumbass enough thing to do even in America, where not quite all cops were just crooks in uniform.

Zandu said, ‘Anyway, it is safe here with me for the moment. I have two officers stationed outside my door on guard duty.’

Bronski shook his head. If Zandu knew the real value of what he was holding there in Brazzaville, it would be a hundred officers stationed outside his damn door, with automatic rifles.

‘But I think that you or your, ah, associate should come and collect it as soon as possible,’ Zandu went on. ‘I do not want the responsibility of looking after such a thing. And I hope that my assistance in this matter will not go unrecognised.’

‘You have my sincere thanks,’ Masango said. ‘And that of my associate, who will be most appreciative of your loyalty and, ah, honesty… Tell me, out of interest, where is Arundel now?’

Zandu replied, ‘Staying in town. He is with a party of others. I think one of them is his father. They looked alike. There was a woman with them, too. Young. Dark hair. Attractive.’

‘An American woman?’

‘I thought she looked Japanese,’ Zandu said. ‘Or Chinese. Who can tell the difference? They all look the same to me, like muzungus. Do you want the address?’ He read it out while Masango scribbled it down. Bronski made a note of it as well. Sounded like some low-rent guesthouse.

Masango clearly couldn’t wait to put the phone down. ‘I must try to find out what is happening. But I assure you, Chief Zandu, we will be in contact with you again very soon. Thank you again and goodbye.’

Click.

The moment the sensational call ended, Bronski got straight on the walkie-talkie to his guys. Gasser was alternating shifts with Shelton in the car parked on the north side of Masango’s large walled property. Jungmayr was in the other car, watching the exits a block to the west in case Masango tried to slip off that way.

Bronski said, ‘Did you get that?’

Gasser: ‘Loud and clear, boss.’

Jungmayr: ‘Roger that.’

‘Where’s Shelton?’

‘Having breakfast in some joint across the street.’

‘Reel his lazy ass in ASAP and stand by. Things are about to start happening.’

Bronski sat up straight in the front seat of the van and kept watching the house. Moments later, Masango burst from the back door and hurried towards the Mercedes parked under the shade of the trees like a man with soldier ants in his boxer shorts. He opened the car, but didn’t get in. Instead he reached inside and brought out a cellphone. Probably a damn burner, Bronski thought, irritated that he wouldn’t be able to trace the call or listen in. Although there could be little doubt who Masango was calling, to find out what the hell was going on.

Bronski might not be able to listen, but you could glean a lot about a conversation from just watching. He grabbed his binoculars and focused in on Masango’s face.

Masango paced up and down under the trees as he dialled a number, nervous as a beetle in a chicken coop. He waited impatiently for a few rings and then started yakking away like crazy and gesticulating with his free hand. From his body language, it was hard to tell whether he was shitting himself with anxiety or shitting himself with relief. Maybe a mixture of both.

Bronski kept watching. He cursed as Masango, still on the phone, disappeared out of sight behind some tall bushes. When Masango reappeared, he’d finished his call. He jumped straight into his Mercedes, fired it up, K-turned it out from the shade of the trees and took off down his drive in a tearing hurry.

Bronski started the van as the Mercedes streaked past. He pulled out of the parking space and followed. It felt so good to be back in action at long last. ‘We’re moving,’ he said into the radio. ‘Shelton there yet?’

‘All present and correct, boss.’

‘Heading north. Gasser and Shelton, you should see me any moment now. Stay in contact.’

Masango was really shifting. As he weaved through traffic, keeping the Mercedes in sight, Bronski saw Gasser and Shelton’s silver Peugeot filter into his rear-view mirror, three cars back. Jungmayr’s green Nissan wouldn’t be far behind, gunning it to catch up. They were all pros at covert surveillance and would switch positions constantly so that Masango would never spot the tail. In any case, it looked as if the African had other things on his mind.

Bronski expected Masango to continue north and then cut across town to catch the ferry over the river to Brazzaville. Instead, though, the Mercedes led a twisting route eastwards, parallel with the river for several miles until it became obvious to Bronski that they were heading out of town. Where was the sonofabitch going?

Bronski calmly considered his options and then got back on the two-way. ‘Gasser, Shelton, Jungmayr, I want you to cross into ROC and sit on the police HQ in Brazzaville until further instructions. I’ll stay on Masango and see where he goes.’

He didn’t need to give specifics on the best way over the border. His guys would know to avoid the public ferry and rent a private speedboat to take them the quick route, though they had plenty of bribe cash handy and all the right visas already in place in case they got tangled up with immigration bullshit. They’d be in Brazzaville in a couple of hours, tops.

As for Bronski’s own destination, he had no clue where Masango was leading him. While the Mercedes sped eastwards out of Kinshasa, Bronski picked up his cellphone and called Eugene Svalgaard.

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist just yet, boss, but I think something’s happening over here.’

Svalgaard sounded as though the call had caught him napping, but he responded to the news as if he’d been given an intravenous shot of cocaine straight to the brain. ‘What kind of something? Is it good news? You have it? Victor? Did you get it?’

‘There have been some developments. Not quite sure what they are exactly, but it looks like your rock just surfaced in Brazzaville.’

‘Where the hell’s Brazzaville? Doesn’t matter. I’m on my way. Meet me there.’

‘Hold on—’ Bronski began, but Svalgaard had ended the call. When Bronski redialled the call, Svalgaard had turned off his phone. No doubt already floundering out of his hotel and straight for the Learjet.

‘Prick,’ Bronski muttered.

He followed the Mercedes to a remote private airfield thirty miles east of Kinshasa that was little more than a tongue of cracked concrete in the middle of yellowed brush land. There hadn’t been a living soul in sight for the last five miles, which had made tailing Masango difficult and forced Bronski to hang back almost a quarter of a mile, following a dust plume.

It was hot. Felt like rain was coming. He parked the van behind a clump of thorn bushes on a hill overlooking the strip, where he watched Masango get out of the car and stand alone at the side of the empty concrete runway, waiting and looking up at the overcast sky. He checked his phone once, but was probably getting no reception out here.

Masango went on waiting and Bronski went on watching for a little over thirty minutes before the drone of a light aircraft became audible and a speck appeared in the sky, coming in from the east. Soon after, a pearly white eight-seater turboprop touched down and taxied to a halt as Masango ran to meet it.

Out of the plane stepped a large, powerfully built man in military khaki covered with all the gold braid befitting his self-awarded rank, a red beret clamped on his head. The mirrored aviators, the Havana: no question in Bronski’s mind who the guy was.

Jean-Pierre Khosa.

The General looked even nastier and more pissed off than he did in the only photo Bronski had seen. Considering that he’d just had his precious diamond filched from him, it wasn’t hard to guess the reason for his foul mood. Even Masango looked terrified of the guy.

Khosa was accompanied by five hard-looking men with automatic weapons who posted themselves around the aircraft and scoured the surrounding area like bodyguards on VIP close protection duty while Masango led Khosa to the Mercedes and they got in.

Bronski had no desire to be shot to death by an African warlord’s heavies that day, or any day. Having seen enough, he started the van and made his exit.