‘Impossible!’ said Wong with an encouraging smile as the younger woman departed.
When she was alone in the kitchen, Wong reached into the plastic bucket in which she kept her bottles of cleaning liquid and polish, her duster and her cloths, and took out a rolled-up piece of clear plastic. She peeled a protective backing layer away from it, then set the plastic down on the table, exactly where Faith Gushungo had placed her right hand. She then peeled it away from the table and covered it again with the protective layer.
After work, Wong took a train from Tai Po to Monkok, the heart of Kowloon, where the population is said to be packed together more tightly than anywhere else on earth. She went to the fourth floor of a rundown apartment building and knocked on a door covered in faded, peeling red paint. It was opened by a thin, bespectacled man wearing a tatty old white lab coat. He grinned when he saw it was Wong at the door and ushered his former Hong Kong Police colleague into the small apartment.
The perfectly maintained equipment inside was worth far, far more than the dingy property in which it sat. There were computers linked to every significant police database, scanners, laser printers, spectrometers, centrifuges – in short, the apartment was a miniature forensic lab.
The man took the plastic sheet Wong handed over to him and placed it on a scanner. Seconds later, a larger-than-life image of Faith Gushungo’s handprint appeared on a thirty-two-inch monitor screen. The man looked at it for a second then turned to Wong with an even bigger smile on his face.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I will be able to give you exactly what you need.’
49
‘Again!’ Carver’s command echoed around the cavernous interior of the barn.
From above him came the sound of Zalika Stratten’s tired, frustrated voice: ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, what now?’
‘You were blundering around like a herd of elephants up there. The idea, in case you hadn’t noticed, is to do this without anyone being able to hear you.’
Zalika’s face appeared, leaning over the railing that surrounded the crude platform that represented the Gushungos’ master bedroom in Hong Kong.
‘Are you suggesting I’m fat?’
‘Not at all,’ Carver replied, deadpan. ‘Just clumsy and heavy-footed.’
‘Oh!’ Her voice went up an octave in sheer outrage. ‘I’ll kill you for that, Samuel Carver!’
‘Not yet, you won’t. We’ve got a job to do. So, one more time, from the top.’
Zalika stomped very deliberately across the planking, down the stairs and out of the barn. When she got outside, she walked precisely thirty-two metres, then stopped, stood still and waited.
In the barn, Carver started talking apparent gibberish: ‘Bla-blah, yadda-yadda, waffle-waffle, now.’
Both he and Zalika were wearing miniature earpieces linked to their mobile phones. When she heard the word ‘now’ she started walking at a steady pace, came back in through the barn door and made her way – very, very quietly – up the stairs.
It was Wednesday afternoon. She’d been doing this for most of the last twenty-four hours, repeating the same apparently simple routine until it was grooved so deep that she could do the whole thing almost without thinking, as if she were operating purely by muscle memory. Carver had rounded up a handful of Klerk’s staff to act as bodyguards and maids. They had no idea why they were getting involved in this strange game of make-believe, but it made a fun break from their daily routine. Every so often Carver used one or two of the staff to throw in variations. What if there was someone in the hall when Zalika walked in? What if she were interrupted when trying to get into the safe? What if she had to fight or talk her way out?
Carver was no longer surprised by the range of Zalika’s abilities. The previous day, they’d sparred a little on a large judo mat, working on kicks, punches, blocks and throws. They’d gone at it hard, working up a sweat. When he’d complimented her on being able to keep up with him, she’d pulled a stray strand of hair off her face and, in between gasps for air, panted, ‘Are you kidding? I’m a Stratten. I had my first self-defence class when I was six.’
When he’d commented on her amazing ability to come up with an almost infinite number of excuses, explanations and charming little deceits, she giggled and said, ‘I’m a girl. I’ve been doing that all my life!’
Even in his guise as the tough taskmaster, Carver couldn’t stop himself laughing. He could feel the two of them getting closer, heading towards a destination they both knew was inevitable. Just a few more run-throughs and he would be certain of her. Then they could relax and have some fun.
Zalika went through the operation again, and again, and then, after one more run-through, which was perfect, just as the previous half-dozen had in fact been, Carver said, ‘That’ll do it. Thanks, everyone.’ And then, so that only Zalika could hear, ‘You’re ready. And you’re going to be good. Bloody good.’
She smirked cheekily. ‘But darling, I always am…’
They wandered back to the house together, and when Carver put his arm round her, Zalika nestled closer to him, moulding herself to his body.
Klerk watched them from the French windows to his drawing room as they ambled across the lawn.
‘Hey, you two,’ he called out, ‘come over here. I’ve got some things that might interest you.’
Klerk ushered the two of them into the room and then handed Carver a sealed aluminium flask, roughly the size and shape of a packet of Pringles. The contents, however, were a lot less savoury.
‘This is the recipe you asked for,’ Klerk said. ‘Flown in on my personal jet today. It was a rush-job, to put it mildly. But my boys are good. They say they got it right and I trust them. You can too. So now will you tell me what you’re going to do with it?’
‘Of course.’
Carver spelled out the key elements of his plan; the finer points of detail could wait till he and Zalika were in Hong Kong. At the end, Klerk nodded his assent.
‘The timing is the key to it,’ he said. ‘Hong Kong is six hours ahead of Malemba. What time do you expect the job to be completed?’
‘Around eleven-thirty on Sunday.’
‘So that’s about sun-up in Malemba: perfect. Most of the cops and soldiers will still be nursing the sore heads they got on Saturday night. I’m meeting Patrick Tshonga in South Africa tomorrow. I’ll fill him in on what you’ve got planned. He’s got senior police and military commanders loyal to him. They will make sure their men are rested and sober. Keep me posted over the next few days on any developments. I want to know exactly what you’ve got planned. When the job is completed, you will text OK, just that, to a number I will provide. That will be the go-signal. By breakfast time the country will be under new management.’
‘I just hope Justus and his kids are alive to see it.’
‘I’ve done something about that,’ said Klerk. ‘I put the head of security for my southern Africa operations, Sonny Parkes, on to it. He made a few calls, called in some favours and tracked them down to the remand cells at Buweku jail. Then he organized a lawyer for the family and some food – they don’t get fed in the jails now, you know. He’s a good man, Parkes, a man you can trust.’ Klerk handed Carver a business card for one of his corporations with Parkes’s name printed on it. ‘His contact details are all on that. If you call him, he’ll keep you posted on any developments. I have something else for you, too.’
A large, plain brown envelope was lying on a side-table. Klerk picked it up and pulled out a folder of documents.
‘These are the contracts making you a five per cent shareholder in the Kamativi Mining Corporation. I’ve given you a non-executive directorship, too. You never know, one day you might want to settle down, find yourself a good woman and start earning a respectable living. I think you’d be a damn good businessman, Sam, if you ever put your mind to it.’