The Congo Contract (Alex King Book 13), page 8
Stewart turned his attention back to Horácio Bartolomeu, who had been watching intently, but now looked terrified once more. He looked across the room at Piers, who had watched the incident between King and his fellow countryman noncommittedly. “Ungag him,” Stewart ordered. He watched as the South African untied the strips of ripped shirt, then waited for the Angolan to open his mouth wider. Piers hooked out the lightbulb that they had both forced into the man’s mouth, which was still remarkably in one piece.
Piers looked at Stewart and shrugged. “He’ll be ready to talk now.” He paused. “Otherwise, it goes back in, and I’ll slap him around his cheeks until it explodes…” He stared down at the terrified man and said, “And we all know what a mess a shattered lightbulb makes when it goes pop…”
“You fucking dickheads…” King said quietly, unable to hide his distaste.
“Big boys’ games,” Tom said briskly, regaining some composure and walking closer.
King shook his head. He walked across the room and picked up a bottle of water. He twisted off the cap then took it over to the Angolan and held it up for him to sip from. The man drank thirstily. His eyes showing the true terror he was feeling.
“The man’s soft,” said Tom derisively. “Too soft for this work.”
“He wasn’t so fucking soft when he dislocated your finger,” Stewart commented flatly. He turned to the Angolan and said, “No fucking about, pal. I want to know who paid you and what you have told them.”
“I don’t know!”
“You don’t know what you told them?”
“No! I don’t know who it was!”
“You let your employer’s down. You betrayed a guest. It will cost you your job.”
“No!” The man shook his head. “I need my job…”
Stewart looked at Piers and said, “You found him here?”
“Out back. On a smoko…” Piers shrugged. “We paid the duty manager to tell us who delivered King’s food. Asked him where we could find him…”
“Shit, the trail is getting easier to read,” said Stewart. “Let’s just hope this duty manager can keep his gob shut when the police come calling.”
“It’s sorted,” Piers replied. “But it’s going to cost you five thousand US dollars. The duty manager has made some calls and right now the gunman is heading down the coast and up a river to a spot where the crocs got a taste for human flesh during the civil war. Both sides just tossed prisoners into the river from bridges and the crocs did the rest. He’s got a couple of maintenance men to sort the plaster and paint in both rooms – the bullets went right through the wall - and King’s room is being deep cleaned as well. He’ll likely pay out a few hundred dollars, but the guy has retirement plans and I think he’ll see that it’s all done right.”
“Perfect,” Stewart replied. “Just as long as he keeps quiet.”
“Jim’s shadowing the guy,” said Piers.
“Where’s Reece?”
“Fuck knows. Having a beer in his room would be my guess.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
“We had it covered,” Tom said gruffly.
“OK,” Stewart nodded.
“We’ll be out of here tomorrow, anyway,” said Piers. “It’s as tidy as we could hope for.”
“That just leaves this guy,” said Tom. He looked hot and troubled, his finger clearly causing him some discomfort.
Stewart looked at the terrified Angolan and said, “If you don’t tell us what you told him, you’ll have a hell of a lot more to worry about than losing your job…” Stewart paused. “My colleagues here…” He waved a hand towards Piers and Tom. “… are not fans of people of your skin colour at the best of times. Let alone someone who has taken money to lead an assassin to their door.”
“I did not know what he was going to do!”
“Bullshit!” Stewart snapped. “How much did he pay you?”
“I…”
“You got him into the hotel. You supplied him with a uniform. You told him the room number, more than likely you led him through the hotel to his door!” He pointed at King. “The man tried to kill him!” Stewart glared back at Bartolomeu and said, “How much?”
The Angolan bowed his head. “Nothing.” He paused. “Three men with guns came to my home. Two of the men stayed with my family. One of the men went with me to the hotel. They said they would kill my family if I did not help them.”
King stepped closer, offered the man some more of the water, which he drank down greedily. When King pulled the bottle away, he said, “So, these men are still there?”
The man nodded. “Yes. They are very bad men. My wife, my daughters… they cannot stay there with such men…”
“Tough shit, kaffir,” Tom sneered at the man. “I bet they’ve all had a good fucking by now. Your wife may not even want you back now…”
Bartolomeu looked up at them pleadingly. “I did not have a choice. I told the man where to find you,” he said, looking at King. “You are a decent man. You gave me a large tip… it wasn’t personal… I am sorry.”
“I bet you want that tip back now, eh?” Tom smirked at King. “Maybe he’ll let you have a go on his wife to compensate you?” He looked back at the Angolan and smiled. “But she’s probably a bit sore now, but who gives a shit…?”
“Dickhead…” King said quietly, shaking his head.
“Want to say that again, pal?” Tom took a pace closer and stared.
“I’m all the way over here, pal. There’s no need to stop walking…” King growled. “You’ve got plenty more fingers for me to work my way through…”
“For fuck’s sake,” Stewart shook his head despairingly. He looked at Tom and said, “Untie this piece of shit.” He turned to Piers and said, “I need a piece. Make it two, King can come with me.”
“What are we doing, boss?” King asked.
Stewart watched the Angolan rubbing his wrists. “We’re going to have a little chat with the men holding his family,” the Scotsman said quietly.
11
Stewart had paid the duty manager in cash from his operation fund. The man had taken his money, promised that everything would be put right before the general manager came on duty in the morning, and provided them with two drivers. Stewart wasn’t happy with the arrangement. He would rather have had their own cars and driven themselves, but time was critical, and the drivers would know their way around Luanda, and they would get there far more quickly than if they had sourced vehicles on their own, and besides, Angola wasn’t overrun with Hertz or Avis rental offices. The vehicles in question were a Toyota Corolla saloon and a Mercedes E Class estate and they had both seen better days. At least ten years old, battered, and dusty having probably never been washed, and both vehicles had cracked windscreens that had spider-webbed across the entire screen and the headlights from oncoming vehicles made it blindingly difficult to judge.
The apartment block was in the north of the city and despite appearing dilapidated, was far more luxurious accommodation than most of the citizens of the nation’s capital could ever hope for. Across the street a shanty village had grown with people sleeping under plastic sheeting and cardboard, and fires burned fiercely in old forty-gallon oil drums with many turned into communal firepits for cooking on. There was the heady aroma of cooking meat, spices, burnt flatbread, sweat and human excrement on the air. A hum of people talking, children crying and of dogs barking in the hope of some scraps of food. A miasma to the senses of the uninitiated, but which Stewart ignored as he stepped out of the car and looked around him. Horácio Bartolomeu ignored the shanty village. It was nothing new to him.
King was taken in by the sights and sounds of the shanty village. It took up the entire pavement for over a hundred metres and the smell was nauseating. He watched as the two South Africans stepped out of the Toyota, both ignoring the sight like it was an everyday experience for them. But then, they had worked all over the African continent and he supposed they had seen far worse. The thought that King would likely see worse over the years left him feeling somewhat cold and indifferent.
They had yet to pick up their weapons from Piers’ contact, but both the South Africans carried Browning 9mm pistols, tucked into the waistband of their trousers, with their shirts untucked to conceal the bulky weapons. King carried his K-Bar knife, strapped to his belt and like the South Africans, concealed under his untucked shirt. The knife had been designed for the United States military during World War Two and had a razor sharp seven-inch blackened blade with a leather handle and metal cross guard. A blood groove ran along the length of the blade to allow easy withdrawal if used for stabbing. But it was all theory. King had trained to use a knife in close quarter combat engagements, but the thought of using it as his primary weapon had suddenly filled him with dread. He looked across at Stewart. The man’s shirt wasn’t untucked, and he knew that Stewart had not precured a firearm and had insisted that the weapons they had liberated from their attackers be disposed of. King had tossed the handguns into a drainage culvert when he had ditched the taxi, and the machine pistol used to attack King had been dealt with by the duty manager.
Two gunshots echoed through the night. King crouched beside a low wall, searching for the direction of the sound. A dog barked in the ensuing silence. He looked at the other three men, noticing that they had not flinched at the sound. To his consternation, he saw that Tom had seen him crouch and was now smirking. Another four gunshots rang out and more dogs started to bark but quietened down after twenty seconds or so. Perhaps they were used to it.
“We shouldn’t have left Jim at the hotel as fucking nursemaid to that hotel manager,” said Piers as he drew his pistol and cocked the hammer. “Someone should stay with the cars.” He paused. “If they’re not here when we come back out…”
“The rookie can sit this one out,” Tom sneered. “He’s practically shitting himself…”
King stared at him but said nothing. But he had to agree that they suddenly seemed undermanned, and Reece had seemed to have gone AWOL. His room had been empty, and he had not been in the bar.
“King goes with me,” Stewart replied. “Tom, you can stay. Give King your weapon.”
“Fuck you,” Tom growled. “I’ll stay, but I’m not guarding the cars without a weapon…”
“It’s OK, boss,” said King. “They don’t know we’re coming, and we want one of them alive to find out how they knew where we were, and what we are here to do.” He paused, looking at the Angolan. “How big is the apartment?”
The man shrugged. “Maybe four metres by five metres where we live. And then there are two bedrooms each three metres by two metres. And the banheiro…” He paused, struggling for the translation. “…the toilet and the place of bathing…”
“The bathroom,” King nodded.
“Yes,” the Angolan replied nervously.
“Sounds like a proper shithole, eh?” Tom grinned mirthlessly. “Well, it’s certainly close quarters. Not enough room to swing a cat, eh? But plenty of space for them to root some pussy…”
King snatched the Browning out from the man’s waistband at the same time as he shoved him hard in the chest. Tom sprawled towards the Mercedes and the man behind the wheel looked up from the stuffed flatbread he was eating, but lost interest almost as quickly. “You need to keep your mouth shut,” King said coldly.
Tom squared up to King, his cheeks flushed and breathing heavily. “Give me back my fucking gun,” he replied. He was angry, but King noticed a hesitancy in his expression. But then again, he no longer had the gun.
Stewart stepped between King and Piers to pre-empt an escalation but noted that the man hadn’t raised his weapon in defence of his compatriot. “King…”
King ignored the Scotsman, staring back at Tom. “I’ll double your fee if you can take it off me…”
“King…” Stewart prompted.
Again, King ignored him and kept his eyes on the South African’s, which were boring into his own with such intensity that the whites were clearly visible in the darkness. The man subconsciously picked at the tape around his broken index finger, then his composure relaxed a little as he realised that he had been beaten. “Stay by the cars. Make sure they’re still here when we get back,” King said, turning towards Bartolomeu. “And you… lead the way…”
Stewart smiled as he watched King assume command of the situation. Tom was seething, but had relented and had turned to the drivers, berating them should they decide to drive off without them.
King kept the Browning held down beside his right leg. The area was dark, and people were sleeping in doorways and in dried drainage culverts. King supposed they knew the risks of flash flooding hundreds of miles inland which could unleash a tsunami of water, but beggars could not be choosers. Ahead of them an old car sped off an area of grassy waste ground and left a hubcap spinning in the road. It was not using its lights and as it sped into the distance, its brake lights illuminated its backend, but it was impossible to make out the make and model.
“Somebody’s up to no good,” said Stewart.
“Besides us?” King shot him a sideways glance.
“Crime is all there is around here,” the Scotsman continued. “Too many years of war and civil unrest. Nobody knows how to do an honest job anymore.”
King was about to question that fact, pointing out the employees at the hotel, but as he watched as the Angolan led the way to his apartment, he was quickly reminded that Stewart’s words may well be true, considering what had led them to be here, and that the duty manager’s clean-up operation was an all-time lesson in lawlessness and bribery.
Horácio Bartolomeu’s apartment was on the eighth floor. Washing draped from the stairwell and doors to the other apartments were open filling the stairwell with noise and cooking smells. The Angolan explained that the apartments were so small that most people left their doors open so that the children could spill out onto the landings and the open doors would create a flow of air in the searing heat. But as they climbed the stairs and drew closer, the man looked worried and eventually said, “Something is very wrong…” His pace quickened and King shot Stewart another glance. There were people ahead and when they saw Bartolomeu at the top of the stairs the voices were loud and frantic and the Angolan looked back at King and Stewart frantically and said, “It is my family…!”
Stewart turned to Piers and said, “Wait here, watch our backs!” The South African obliged, leaned back against the wall and pulled up his shirt, making it easier to get to his pistol. Stewart said to King, “Give me the gun…”
“Fuck off…”
“King…”
“No, boss. I’m armed and it’s staying that way. I can have the same discussion with you as I did with Tom…”
The Scotsman shook his head irritably as he took out his knife. “It may well end up differently for you…” he said, but he shook his head and started after the Angolan, before stopping in his stride and turning back to King. “Well, go on then! You’ve got the weapon, lead the fucking way, son…”
Horácio Bartolomeu stopped as several people swarmed around him, and the man was deluged in chatter. King pressed on, guided the man past and towards the apartment. “They… they are saying that my family are dead…” he said tearfully, his shoulders sagging and his pace slowing as if he was walking in treacle.
King ignored the man, but he could feel him sag under his grip. He lifted him, kept the man moving in front of him, selfishly using him as a shield as much as to keep him walking. When he pushed Bartolomeu through the open doorway he shouted at everybody on the landing and inside the room to get out. Stewart took King’s lead and barked orders to go, shoving men and women alike and clipping a couple of inquisitive children around the ear. The people were subservient to authority and did as they were told. The gun in King’s hand was enough to stop them questioning them further, and Stewart swiped the air with his knife, the blade glinting in the light from bare, low watt bulbs.
The Angolan was on his knees beside the body of his wife. She was naked from the waist down and it was evident she had been raped. Bartolomeu had two daughters barely into their teens and both girls were huddled together. Naked. Dead. A bullet hole in their foreheads. The man’s son had been strangled. He looked no older than ten.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” Stewart said quietly as he closed the door behind them.
Both men lay dead on the floor. A bullet hole in their foreheads and two more dead centre in the chests. The ‘Mozambique drill’. Both men looked similar to the man King had killed in his hotel room. The same few days’ stubble on their chin, eyes yellowed by malaria. Tough and wiry and muscled. Both men carried short versions of the AK-74 assault rifle, the AKS-74U with folding metal stocks and shortened barrels.
“What do we think?” Stewart asked.
The woman and her daughters showed all the signs imaginable with rape. Both men had been caught with their trousers down. King said, “These two scumbags had their fun. Probably strangled the boy in front of his mother before they started. Maybe to coerce them, more than likely to torture them further,” he said. He stalked off into the bedroom and returned with some sheets. He dropped one over the boy’s body, covered the two girls with another. “But these bastards didn’t kill the women.” He paused, respectfully laying the last sheet over the man’s wife as he sobbed quietly beside her. King stood up and looked at Stewart. “But I don’t know who did.”
“What makes you so sure they didn’t just kill the women after they’d had their fun?”
King shrugged. “The AK rounds would have topped them like boiled eggs. Those headshots were made with something small. Likewise, the men have the same sized bullet holes in their skulls, with no exit wounds. I’m thinking a seven-point-six-five of some sort or perhaps even a Makarov. Nothing too potent. There would be no shortage of Makarov pistols around here after the Cubans and Russians were here for so long.”
“So, our shitbags here strangled the boy, did their raping and God only knows what else, and someone shot them, but also shot all three of the women…” He paused. “A Makarov would have needed reloading for that.”
