Nothing to Lose

By Richard Martin

Michael Stone thinks hes an experienced consultant. But when hes sent to investigate a case of corruption in South Africa involving a government minister whose department manages national roads projects, hes thrown into a world of conspiracy and intrigue. While hes ploughing through official documents, he becomes aware of another storm brewing: the threatened demolition of Alexandra (home to more than 350,000 poor people in the heart of South Africas most expensive real estate) with the intention of turning it into executive housing. The residents resistance to demolition is met by arson and violence, but behind it all is the one and same minister, who happens also to be chairman of the developers. Michaels sympathies draw him to the protestors, and he offers to share his Greenpeace skills as an activist to help their cause. Before long, there are threats to his life, and he has to go into hiding. Meanwhile, his efforts to help the residents struggle are slow to bear fruit, and his motives for helping them are questioned. Suspicions flare, and his life is threatened by the same people he is trying to help. One thing is sure: it will end badly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Dec 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482825794

Book preview

1

January 10, next year, New York

A gent Karolski could never be called a happy man. His wife, before she left him, said it was like being married to a St Bernard: sentimental, goofy and fundamentally forlorn. But today he had something to look forward to: after work he would buy himself a really nice steak and a six pack, and pig out while watching the game.

After his shift he liked to walk home to his little apartment. It took him past all the fancy shops, and he could dream about buying a priceless necklace from Tiffany’s, or even a decent shirt from Brookes Brothers.

Today’s shift had been typically dull. Catching some kids stealing apples was the highlight.

Bloomingdale’s. That’s a nice store. Occasionally he bought something cheap but large, so that he could carry a big Bloomingdale’s bag with him, and show people that he was a man of means.

The entrance to the store was packed, but his eyes focussed on a man no cop could ignore. He was leaning against the shop window; a very dark black man. You could tell he was foreign. Everything about him was wrong. His eyes were darting from side to side, and he shifted his feet uneasily. He wore a large black overcoat and black shoes. He’s trying, thought Karolski, to look respectable.

He’s probably a pickpocket. He should just ask him to move on – make him feel that he was being watched. Or should he take him in? Yes, he’d . . .

Seemingly from nowhere a heavily built man with a similar complexion, but taller, came up to his suspect. They talked for a minute or two. Looking agitated, the man opened his coat to get something out of his pockets, then suddenly slumped against the shop window. Just as quickly as he had appeared, the tall man disappeared inside the store. Karolski ran after him, but he had vanished.

When Karolski came out the man was down on the ground, his eyes wide with shock, bleeding from his chest. Karolski called the precinct to send a car and an ambulance.

What happened buddy? asked Karolski.

No response.

Who did this to yer?

No response

The paramedics were not hopeful. It’s his heart, they said. We can slow down the bleeding, but he’s probably only got a few minutes to go.

Hear that, buddy? said Karolski. It sounds as if that guy has killed you. Now tell us who he is. We need to get him.

The man’s eyes began to fog, but he started to talk. Karolski couldn’t understand his accent and he could hardly hear what he was saying. The words he thought he got were: Minister Kenneth, South Africa…$350 million.

In his report, Karolski said he thought the man had uncovered a televangelist’s scam. Probably based in Harlem.

An alert was put out for the big guy.

The next morning he received an urgent call.

Officer Karolski? the voice was high pitched, arrogant, annoying.

This is he.

Hi, my name’s Agent Beecher, FBI. We think we’ve got a lead for the murder you witnessed yesterday. Can you meet me at the SA Flame Grill – that’s on West 14th Street? How about 11 this morning? I know that at this stage you guys are in charge of the investigation, but I want to interview a witness. You’ll be there to make it official, OK?

It was a gloomy street, but the brightly lit sign outside the restaurant was unmissable.

Sure enough there was a black car parked a few shops down. The woman who got out had strong features and a mannish walk, inhibited by a too tight black skirt that was just visible below her coat.

Hi Mr Karolski, she said, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Natalie Beecher. If you don’t mind I’d like to lead the talking. We’ve got couple of clues I need to explore.

They pushed open a slightly grubby glass door.

My name’s Amy, I’m here to help you, said a small dark girl.

I’d like to speak to the Manager, said Natalie, if that’s not too much trouble.

Why, of course, said Amy, I’ll see if she’s in, and pushed open a door to the right of the serving counter with the words Rest Room written on a plastic plaque above it.

A few minutes later a large woman emerged, her expression sullen and her eyes deeply hostile. She said nothing.

Good day, said Natalie, I’m agent Beecher and this is Agent Karolski. Can we know your name?

Sure, said the lump, They call me Sis Kunene. What can I do for you?

Can we meet somewhere private? said Natalie.

I ain’t got nothing to hide, said Sis, but if it’s important we can meet in my office.

The passage leading to the office smelt musty, with some unpleasant rest room smells mixed in. Natalie looked at Karolski and wrinkled her nose.

Sis Kunene’s office was more like a store cupboard than an office, with cartons of supplies piled up in one corner and untidy heaps of invoices on every available horizontal surface.

She sat in a smart adjustable office chair, motioning them to sit on the two upright wooden chairs on the other side of the desk.

Miss Kunene, started Natalie.

Sis’s hand went up. "It’s Mrs – I’m married to Mister Kunene ya see – but you just call me Sis."

Sis, said Natalie, slightly shamefaced. Can I show you a photograph? We need to identify someone who was murdered yesterday.

She showed her the picture of the victim.

Never seen the guy.

Then we’ll not bother you any more, said Natalie, getting up. Obviously annoyed, but trying to keep a polite expression.

They walked slowly through the smelly passage, Sis trailing behind. As they came into the restaurant area, Natalie said, using a rather louder voice,

By the way, what’s your phone number, in case we need to contact you again?

Sis gave it, without hesitation, and Natalie made a show of getting out her little notebook to write it down.

Outside, she gave Karolski a knowing wink. Sorry to keep you in the dark here, Karolski, but I thought it would look better if you knew nothing about it. The fact is that the deceased’s cell phone had a message on it from Ms Kunene. C U TONITE, it said. So he knew her.

Back at the station, Natalie asked Karolski to introduce her to the homicide sergeant responsible for the investigation, a certain Barney Woodstock.

It’s like this, Barney, she said, We know that Ms Kunene had some relationship with the deceased. She pretends otherwise, but just now I don’t want to press the issue. If we rattle the cage they might start moving or destroying evidence. For some time we’ve had our eyes on that operation. In the cause of justice I even went to a couple of their outlets to check on their operations. Their financials show a roaring trade, but whether you go there at lunch time or the evening it’s very quiet. They’re copying Nando’s, which is a well-respected chain of restaurants, but failing miserably. I can personally vouch for the fact that their food is crap. I tried their so-called flame-grilled chicken peri-peri and it was revolting. So, far from being a chain of successful restaurants, my guess is that they’re nothing but a shell for money laundering. And where there’s money laundering there’s drugs.

As she was talking, an officer gave Barney an envelope. This just came from forensics, he said, they reckon there’s a clue in there.

Barney read the report. As you thought, Agent Beecher, they found traces of high grade heroin in his pocket. Not enough to prove that he was a dealer, but you don’t often get that stuff on the streets – they reckon he was an insider of some sort.

That’s great, said Natalie, now we’ve got probable cause to get a search warrant. We’ll request the NYPD to get the warrant in the normal way, but allow us to participate in the search, and process the findings. If it is what I think it is, we’re onto something big.

Together they went to Bloomingdale’s security office and watched the CCTV footage. It didn’t have a frontal view of the perpetrator. Karolski had a good memory of his appearance but also hadn’t seen his face. He was never found.

2

Friday January 15, Milborne Port, Dorset

T here was a Jack Reacher movie on the pub’s TV, with Tom Cruise as the hero. I rather liked the Reacher books: the super-clever thug who was always one step ahead of the opposition. Not that I told my friends that I read that stuff: they would call it airport trash.

Compared to him, I didn’t make the grade at all. He was 6ft 6in, whereas I’m only 5ft 10. He was fair, and I am mousy. He was strong and I am no more than average. He was 35 or so, and I ten years older. But Tom Cruise was nothing like the man in the books either.

A penny for your thoughts – the voice of Sally, the village’s favourite barmaid due to her cheerful disposition and a not inconsiderable chest that she displayed without shame when she leant over to clear the tables.

It’s nothing, I said, I was just thinking I didn’t compare very well with Jack Reacher. Or even Tom Cruise – just don’t have it, do I?

No one looks as miserable as you do just because Tom Cruise is better looking. Come on Mike, spill the beans.

Well, for starters, my divorce came through last week and I’ve lost the children. I have had no work for six months, and my money’s running out. I seem to have lost most of my friends and the weather’s cold and miserable. Is that enough?

She sat down on a stool next to me – the first time she had even done that.

I’m sorry, Mike. I really am. I knew things were a bit tough, but it does sound pretty mizz. She got up, and went behind the bar. Here, she added, like an afterthought, have one on the house.

As I nursed my beer, I looked around the bar. Clusters of men talking too loudly and trying hard to stay jolly. Young couples at the tables in the back, fondling each other. A middle-aged group, drinking wine and looking rather po-faced. Some youngsters, more like Sally’s age, playing pool and making crude jokes. And me. Just me. The loneliness was beginning to get to me.

We’re a bit short staffed today, said Sally from behind the bar, would you help me clear up the glasses after closing time?

Was she talking to me? I looked up. Her jolly eyes were fixed on mine.

Why, er, yes, of course, anything I can do to help… my voice drifted away. Possibilities began to dawn on me. Oh, of course, I said, I get it, I’ve got to earn my free beer.

Her eyes twinkled. You got it, she said.

Although she never went steady with anyone, it was well known that Sally was more than friendly with some of the village boys. But they might turn nasty, and the last thing I wanted was a fist fight.

That won’t happen. She’s discreet. And here I am in a West Country pub, being picked up by a barmaid, feeling that life was, after all, not so bad.

Last orders. The landlord had come in from the public bar and started ostentatiously wandering around the customers hoping they’d get out without a fuss. The boys playing pool sloped out looking thoroughly bored, or drunk, or both.

I helped her collect all the glasses and put them onto the bar.

She leant right across the bar, so that her mouth was only inches from my ear, and make sure you’ve got some condoms at home, she whispered.

I might have some condoms at home, but during the divorce the idea of women had felt repugnant. That had killed my sex drive stone dead. So they had fallen out of use in my household. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was to spend ages hunting around for the damn things while she was waiting for me. I went to the gents and put an inordinate number of pound coins into the condom machine.

That’s all, she said, the cleaners will do the rest tomorrow morning.

We walked back home. It wasn’t far, and luckily it was dry.

So Mike, she said, we’ve often wondered why you didn’t seem to be travelling like you used to. What happened?

I explained that the outfit I had been working for, the International Bank, had got pissed off with me because I was a whistle-blower. I was just an ordinary so-called consultant whose job was to do studies for roads and housing projects. The job had taken me all over the world, usually with only three or four trips to each country. Each project and each country was different, so it was fun. I had earned a reputation for good solid work resulting in successful projects.

But, in my last job in Thailand I had, quite accidentally, come across a big time fraud. I was neither a finance specialist nor an auditor, but this had been so large and so cleverly organised I reported it immediately to my bosses in Washington, who sent my report to the Thai Government – while I was still there. I was promptly picked up and put on the next plane. The Thai Government claimed it was I who was corrupt and was blaming them to cover my tracks. That had been in June last year, over six months ago. The Bank didn’t believe me, and had stopped employing me. At first I thought it would only take them a month to get to the truth, but it now looked at though their decision was final. I’d been trying get work elsewhere, without luck. I had written to all my old contacts, but somehow the scandal about Thailand had reached everyone’s ears, and they didn’t even reply to my emails.

She put her arm through mine and leaned gently into me. We must have looked like a long-married couple. I put pressure on her arm, keeping her close to me. It had been so long since I felt a woman.

I believe you, she said, I know you’re a really nice man. That’s why I wanted to come with you tonight. What’s more, she said, I think you’re much better looking than Tom Cruise. I hate his weasly face.

She paused for a minute.

Mike, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. This isn’t the beginning of a love affair, OK? Just tonight, right? I don’t want you getting jealous if you see me with other men. That’s the way I am.

I nodded. I had also seen it like that, but hoped that there might be something more.

I’m not the village tart, OK? she said. I like men, but I don’t want commitments, right?

I nodded again, not sure what to say.

Right? she said, looking at me.

Right, I said, then putting on a fake American military voice, Message received and understood, sir.

When I opened the door she went in first, her eyes alight with wonder. Why Michael Stone, she said, you’ve got quite a place here. Look at these beautiful floors, and the lovely rugs. She slowly went from room to room, her hands touching the tables and chairs, the curtains, the sofas.

Any old masters? she asked, looking at a 19th century oil landscape.

Sorry, I said, they’re just Victorian rubbish. I was beginning to feel uneasy. She seemed to be thinking that I was super-rich, and I suppose that in contrast to the village youth’s houses this must look pretty impressive. It all stuff that I inherited from my parents. I don’t want to get rid of it. . .

She took my hand and led me upstairs. She had no trouble finding my bedroom – a vast under-furnished space in which the only decent item was a lovely big bed.

She undressed me in a workmanlike way – there was no attempt to make this into a love scene, no frantic kissing or urgent desire. She was simply doing a job. Then it was her turn.

Don’t laugh, she said, this is January, remember, so a girl needs to keep warm. She was slowly peeling off a thick pair of granny-style panties, Bridget Jones style. And don’t forget I’ve got nothing on top, so it can get chilly. That’s part of my marketing – you won’t believe what it does for the tips – and non-negotiable.

She lay in my big bed, her eyes twinkling with fun. Come on then Mike, I haven’t got all night. I want to get laid.

Half an hour later she lay in my arms, entwining her limbs with mine.

I’d never have thought it, she said, I didn’t know posh people were so good. Better than Tom Cruise, and ten times better than the village boys. They haven’t got a clue.

You, she added, could be my favourite man. But, as I said, don’t get any ideas, OK?

That doesn’t stop me saying thank you, does it? I said. You’re the best medicine a man can have.

We went to sleep

3

Saturday 16th January

B ut not for long. She was pushing me and saying Mike, wake up. The phone’s ringing.

My heart sank. Only bad news comes at three in the morning, or whatever godforsaken time it was. One of my kids killed in a car accident? Or my wife wanting to get back together again – a truly scary thought.

I pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs to where the phone was. It was a principle of mine never to take my cell phone upstairs.

Michael?

Yes, that’s me.

What’s the matter with you? said someone, we’ve been holding on for ever.

I knew that voice, an arrogant bully who could sometimes, occasionally, be a great ally, but could also be a total pain in the arse.

That sounds to me very like Jerry, I said, how thoughtful of you to call me at zero o’clock on a Saturday morning. Is this your idea of fun?

Listen Michael, we don’t need any smart alec stuff from you. We’ve got more important things to do than listen to your crap. I’ve got Madamo here and we need to talk.

Madamo. He was someone I had worked with for years, who had now risen to meteoric heights in the International Bank. I used to think he was a true friend, but I hadn’t had so much as a Happy Christmas from him since the Bangkok incident. He, like everyone else, seemed to have decided that I was at best an undesirable connection and at worst a corrupt criminal to be avoided at all costs.

Hey, Mike, said Madamo, it’s good to hear your voice. How are things?

Do you want the honest answer or the formula? I asked. He knew damn well that things were terrible, and that I must be at the end of my savings, desperately hoping for work.

Sorry I asked, he said dismissively, with a touch of annoyance we’re only calling you because something important has come up.

I would hope so, I said, being totally unable to be nice when woken up in the small hours of the morning, especially being taken from the arms of Sally. Otherwise why would you call me at, I looked up at the clock, two in the morning? On a Saturday morning? When all sensible people are safely tucked up in bed?

Why don’t you stop complaining and listen to me? he said. I wouldn’t be ringing you at this time if it wasn’t important. And I’ll have you know that even in Washington we’re working seriously late. So stop that stupid crap and just listen.

Does this mean that I’m forgiven for my sins in Bangkok? I asked, and immediately regretted it. Why did I have to bring that up? It was a sign of weakness that I couldn’t afford at this time. I had to sound self sufficient, confident and masterful. But I really needed to know. If I didn’t feel that my name had been cleared I could never operate properly.

Didn’t they send you the report? he said. You’ve been totally exonerated. We and the Thai government issued a joint statement two weeks ago. You are in the clear. The bidder who won that contract has been shown to have big-time corrupt connections and finally they have awarded to tender to the same firm that was recommended initially. The paper trail was so well covered that it took a long time to prove. But Mike – don’t let this go to your head. Remember that it’s not just doing the right thing that counts: it’s being seen to do the right thing.

There was silence.

This is something very different, he continued. I could hear him shifting papers around, and muttering something to someone nearby that sounded very much like I’m getting there, give me time to calm him down.

It’s a big big problem that’s come up in South Africa, and we need someone to go there immediately. Before I go any further, are you free to travel in the next week?

I was going to say, Let me look at my dairy. I’ve got a couple things on the go at present. I’ll have to see whether I can shift them around. One might be pretty tough, but I know the client well so think I can do it. The other should be no problem… The usual crap that consultants talk to give the impression that they are so successful that their time is very scarce. But I knew that wouldn’t fool Madamo.

What do you think? was the best I could do.

I’ll take that as a yes, he said.

You might like to get some paper and take some notes, he said, as this is going to be a long call. I’ll send you everything in an email tomorrow or the next day, but I want you to start thinking and preparing as soon as you can. It’s a long story.

I almost asked for a travel advance to buy paper, but decided that joking was not going to get me anywhere. I grabbed a small ringbound book I used to make shopping lists, and a cheap pen that only wrote after you had scribbled hard. Which I did on the back of the notepad.

Ok, I’m ready, I said.

"I’ll explain. We’ve been worried about South Africa for several months. We’ve got a huge roads project there – almost a billion dollars – and it’s going relatively well. But the Government have behaved very secretively – you know being slow to produce documentation, protesting about our auditing systems, and so on – but we didn’t know why.

"Earlier this week there was a murder in New York that might have been connected with the scam. The name of the Minister of Public Works and Housing was mentioned, and we wondered whether the victim had stumbled across some incriminating information. I’ve just come out of a meeting with the FBI, State Department and CIA, because they’ve linked the victim to a drugs gang operating out of Nigeria, and have traced some substantial payments from the gang to South Africa. Their view is that we have to work quickly before the gang suspect that we know anything.

So we need someone who doesn’t look or act like an auditor or a policeman to get right into the project and see what’s going on. I suggested you because you’ve got a track record with us. Paradoxically because of the June fiasco, I think you’ll look even less of a threat than you might have done before – it’s as if you have been demoted from a project officer to a mere scribe. Your cover will be that you’re preparing a manual of best practice in road projects, using the South African project as a case study. How does that sound?

What do you think, Madamo? I’m thrilled. At last the pile of unpaid bills on my desk looks less threatening. Thank you. Thank you very much.

There was a long pause at the other end, some shuffling of paper. Then:

What the murder in New York shows is that the stakes are high, so we are giving you until the close of business on Monday, our time, to confirm that you’re willing to take the risk. We’ll pay you your normal rate, but I’ve also managed to swing danger pay – that’s unprecedented, by the way. And there’s a performance bonus of 300% if you produce the goods. But what we’ll need is absolute discretion. In effect you’ll be a spy, but if anyone finds out, we’ll disown you. Interested?

I used to be annoyed by Madamo’s habit of ending everything he said with a question. But we had worked together a long time, indeed we had launched each other’s careers. Madamo had shot up to the top, while I had remained a lowly part-time consultant. But he deserved it – a brilliant mind combined with the diplomacy and courtesy of a Victorian ambassador.

I’ll let you know, I said. But we both knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist, danger or not.

O.K, Madamo said, send me an email. If you accept, I’ll have one of our people call you on Tuesday or Wednesday to discuss travel and communication arrangements. Meanwhile, if you’re going to discuss this with anyone, remember, not a word about your ulterior motive. Not even to your wife.

He obviously hadn’t heard about the divorce. I wondered whether to tell him about it, but decided against it.

OK, mum’s the word.

By the way, how is your wife? he said. I have many happy memories of those evenings back in Zambia. We had a good time, didn’t we?

She was a difficult woman, Madamo, difficult.

"So you split up?

My divorce just came through – freedom is sweet, you know. But it’s lonely too. And she got the kids, which hurts.

Is there another man in the picture?

I detected a sniff of interest. She and Madamo had definitely had something going. I didn’t mind: anything to get her out of my hair had been good news. I wouldn’t be surprised if Madamo tried to contact her.

That’s her business. Quite honestly I prefer not to think about it.

OK, but next time you speak to her, tell her I asked after her.

Yes, indeed I will, I thought.

And with that the line went dead.

I went back to bed. Sally was fast asleep, but it gladdened my heart to see her carefree face on the pillow. But Sally or no Sally, sleep had left me. I quietly got up and went downstairs again.

I made myself a pot of tea.

Welcome, I said, to a born-again Michael! My mind was racing. I pictured myself on the plane to South Africa, once more a man with a purpose, with a life. God, it had been miserable, these last six months.

I must have dozed on the couch, as I woke up in the grey dawn at about 8 a.m. Time to make another cup of tea and try and clear my head. From the kitchen window I could see the rolling green meadows being enjoyed by a few black and white cows. I was saying goodbye to that peaceful scene for no good reason except the folly of self importance. If anyone could do it, I could. I had been chosen from thousands of consultants to handle this, the most tricky job the International Bank had had for years.

With those idiotic thoughts quickly banished I decided it was the right time to start making a list. Phone children. Make will. Check passport and all necessary jabs. Google South Africa.

Sally was up.

What the hell was all that about? she asked.

It’s good news for me. Bad news for you, I said, "no chance of sleeping with this gorgeous geriatric for quite a while. I’m back in business, off to South Africa for a new job. And they’re going to pay me. So when I get back I’ll buy you a