Chapter 5

FIVE

Angelo

An hour before dawn, I pull on a tracksuit and search my hotel room for items suitable for a kidnapping. I settle on the laundry bag and one of my socks. The thick black bag won't let light through, and the sock won't leave marks. Then I scribble a note on the hotel stationary to inform my father that I'm going for a jog on the beach. After slipping the note under his door, I snatch a pair of golf gloves from the kiosk in reception on my way out.

In the car, I pull the address I'd taken from the HR records at Edwards's office up on the GPS. Selecting the shortest route, I head out to an affluent neighborhood on the outskirts of George and park in front of a modern house that overlooks the valley.

The morning is misty, the sun battling to break through the clouds on the horizon. Cows graze on the green hills behind the sea. I switch on the car heater to defog the windscreen. While I wait, I fire off an email from my phone, instructing our best man to get on the next available flight to South Africa. I give him detailed instructions and demand a daily report.

I'm finishing an email to clear the payment for his expenses when the door of the house across the street opens, and Edwards's junior accountant steps out. Elijah Johnson is a short, thin man with manicured nails and perfectly styled brown hair. He wears skinny pants and a Karl Lagerfeld jacket with a matching waistcoat. Transferring a leather satchel from one hand to the other, he checks his wristwatch and hurries to a BMW parked in the driveway.

He gets behind the wheel and inspects his reflection in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the yard. I wait until he's turned the corner, and then I don the gloves, start the engine, and follow at a reasonable distance. When he hits the secondary road that runs through the empty field before joining the national road that goes to town, I cut him off.

His shiny black car skids over the tar as he plucks the wheel to avoid hitting me. The tires squeal as he slams on the brakes. I get out and walk to his side of the car. The gearbox complains as he obviously fails to throw the car into reverse in his flurry of nervous clumsiness.

I knock on his window.

He glances up, squinting like a child peeping through his fingers at a horror movie. When he recognizes me, his shoulders slump.

He winds down the window. "I almost crashed my car. Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Get out. You're taking a ride with me."

He turns paler than Snow White. Watching me with a panicked expression, he jabs his finger on the button to raise the window. I've seen it coming. I'm already reaching inside and pressing the button on his armrest to unlock the doors. He screams like a banshee as I open his door and pull him out by his arm.

"What do you want?" he shrieks, plastering his arms against his sides and holding his hands in the air as if I'm pointing a gun at him.

"Behave, and you'll get to the office without a crease in your suit."

"It's not a suit," he says, sounding offended.

I drag him to the rental and slam him facedown over the hood, keeping an eye on the road to make sure it remains clear.

"Oh, God," he cries in a thin voice. "Are you going to rape me?"

I chuckle. "You're not my kind."

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," he chants as I grab his wrists behind his back in one hand and take the sock from my pocket with the other. "You're going to kill me. You're going to kill me."

"Shut up." I tie his wrists and pull him to his feet. "As I said, cooperate, and you'll be sipping your organic filter coffee at your desk before eight."

"This isn't how it works," he squeals as I open the backdoor and push him inside. "I know how people like you operate."

His eyes grow round when I take the bag from the door compartment.

Despite twisting from side to side and bucking like a pig with rabies, it doesn't take much effort to pull the bag over his head and shove him down on the seat.

"Stay low," I say. "If you show your face, I'll cut off your nose."

He whimpers at the threat.

I shut the door and lock the car in case he gets it into his head to run with a hood over his head and his hand bound behind his back. I'm not in the mood for chasing him through cow dung and muddy fields.

It's early. The road is deserted, but the morning traffic will start soon. I get into his car, push the ignition button, and drive it to the side road a few meters up ahead where I park it on the wide shoulder. I leave the key inside and go back to the rental. With the high crime rate in the area, a luxury car won't be left here for long. He can attribute his late arrival at the office to his car having been stolen. At least he won't have to lie about that.

He alternates between whimpering and shouting obscenities as I take the road along the coast to an abandoned, unfinished house on a clifftop near Victoria Bay. It's one of many grand houses on the coast that had never been completed due to funds running dry.

A short gravel road leads to the building site. The spot is perfect. The construction is far enough from the road to be out of earshot. A high wall marking the perimeter hides the entrance. In the front, the cliff plunges into the sea.

I park behind the wall where the car is out of sight and drag him kicking and screaming into the ground level of the raw concrete building. The top floor has no walls, only pillars and a flat roof, which makes being spotted from there too probable.

Our steps echo on the dusty floor. He finally falls quiet, most likely realizing his pleading and screaming are useless. I steer him around rusted metal spikes sticking from half-finished pillars to the center of the floor where a heap of concrete bricks are stacked. The blue sky is visible through the gaping window frame on the cliffside of the building. I push him down on the bricks, facing the window, and pull the bag from his head.

He drags in air and, blinking a few times, casts a bewildered glance around him. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

I prop a foot on the bricks. "You're here to tell me some things."

He leans away and asks in a high voice, "What things?"

"Things I want to know. I'm going to ask you some questions. You're going to answer them. Easy."

He watches me with wariness etched on his face as I pick up a brick and weigh it in my palm. With his hair standing in all directions and his fancy jacket hanging askew on his frame, he's a pathetic sight.

"Your boss bribes a few high-ranking government officials," I say. "Let's start with their names."

Shifting to the end of his makeshift seat, as far away from me as possible, he says, "I don't know anything about that."

"Come on, Johnson. I'm not an idiot, and I don't have time for games."

Moving around him, I set the brick aside.

"What are you doing?" he shrieks, craning his neck to follow my movements.

I untie his hands and place them palm-down next to him. "For every lie you tell, I'm going to flatten one of your fingers."

He yanks his hands aways and buries them under his armpits.

"Put down your hands, Johnson. If you don't spread your fingers, I can always crush your balls."

"I don't know," he cries. "I mean, I know about the bribes," he stammers. "But I don't know who the money goes to."

"Mm." I pick up the brick and round him again. "I'm not sure I believe you."

"I swear it." He crosses his legs in a feeble effort to protect his junk. "No one does. Only Mr. Edwards."

"Someone pays them." I throw the brick in the air right above his head and catch it before it hits his skull. "Therefore, someone must know."

"Not me," he screeches, ducking to the side. "Mr. Edwards takes care of the payments himself."

"However, you have access to the accounts."

"He pays the money into offshore accounts that are set up in several company names." He pulls his shoulders up to his ears. "It's impossible to trace it back to an individual. The payment system is designed to be untraceable."

This, I do believe. I know how it works. "What about Mrs. Thomson?"

He shakes his head. "I told you. No one knows."

Should I believe him? The reason I didn't pick up Thomson, the CFO, is because she's a much tougher cookie than Johnson. It would've taken a lot more effort to get answers from her, and I don't have much time.

Is he telling the truth about Thomson being in the dark too? Johnson only cares about himself. I've already come to my own conclusions about him by watching him in action at the office. He's sly, ambitious, and self-absorbed. The only things that matter to him are money, status, and a promotion. He's eager for Thomson to retire so that he can move into her corner office. He won't sacrifice himself to save that taciturn woman's hide.

Johnson follows my movements with his gaze, his pupils jittery in their sockets as I bounce the brick on my palm.

"Edwards keeps a record of the sums he pays somewhere," I say. "The recipients must acknowledge receipt of those payments. Edwards is way too thorough not to keep a proof of delivery. You should be able to get your hands on that information. How difficult can it be to do a little snooping at the office?"

"If the information was captured electronically, it would've been possible." He swallows. "Difficult but possible. The problem is that Mr. Edwards writes everything down in a book."

"A book? That sounds old-fashioned, even for Edwards."

"He has this … this little black book." He makes a gesture with his hand, and then, seemingly thinking the better of it, quickly hides his fingers again. "Thomson once mentioned that Mr. Edwards keeps note of how much he pays to whom in that book."

"That's risky."

"Not as risky as keeping the data on a laptop. Encryption programs aren't safe. It only takes a good hacker to crack the code. The information is much too sensitive to let it lie around in cyber space. The people taking bribes from him sign their names in that very same book to acknowledge the receipt of the money. The book doesn't only contain the information that can condemn every woman and man whose names are recorded on its pages, but it also contains the proof that can bury those officials behind bars for a very long time. It'll cause a national scandal, if not a complete collapse of the ruling party."

I grin. "In that case, your job is even easier."

He blinks. "You want me to steal his book? It's impossible. He keeps it locked in his desk at home. He never invites us to his house. He doesn't believe in mixing with his employees outside of work. Even if someone tried to break in, it would be useless. I've seen the precautions he took because I paid the security companies who installed his burglar bars and alarms. From the details on the invoice, there are even burglar bars inside his ceiling to prevent robbers from coming through the roof. The place is like Fort Knox. Mr. Edwards has one of the most sophisticated alarm systems in his world. It's foolproof. He's a stickler for security, which is why he lives in this quiet, godforsaken place and runs an office in George instead of in Cape Town. It's a lot safer here."

After that long speech, he sucks in a breath.

"Fine," I say.

He regards me with mistrust. "Fine?"

I drop the brick. "I believe you."

His features contort with alarm. "What now? What are you going to make me do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" he cries out.

"You're of no use to me."

He's not competent enough to play the thief. I'll have to make another plan to get my hands on that book.

Cowering, he whimpers, "You're going to kill me. I know it."

I laugh, moving around him to tie his hands again. "Not if you keep this meeting to yourself." I pick up the sock. "However, if you say a word?—"

Before I have time to finish my sentence, he jumps to his feet and charges to the window like a man with the devil on his tail.

"Wait," I cry out, diving after him but grabbing nothing but air.

It's too late. Before I can grab his jacket, he's sailing through the window like an athlete jumping hurdles. The windowsill digs into my hips as I slam my body against the bricks.

Dumbfounded, I watch him flail through the air, trying to navigate a drop he clearly didn't anticipate. A dull thud sounds as his body hits the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. He lies there motionless, his arms at his sides and his left leg bent in an awkward position while a red circle bleeds out from beneath his head. I don't need to climb down to know he's dead.

Stupid, crazy fucking bastard.

A wave crashes over him and tugs his body toward the sea when the water pulls back. The next wave drags him a little farther. In a minute, his body will be taken by the current.

I spare the idiot a last glance before getting to work, using a leafy branch I break from a nearby tree to wipe out my tracks. I drive to the tar road and do the same with the marks the tires left in the dust. Bringing the branch with me, I make my way back to George. On the way, I chuck the branch through the window down a ravine.

Fuck.

I still can't believe Johnson was such an idiot, trying to escape through a window without knowing what lies beyond. His fear of me must've outweighed his fear of taking such an uncalculated risk, which is proof of how much terror I inspired in him.

He's not the first man I saw dying. Witnessing torture and death is part of my inheritance. My father never sheltered me from who we are. I've seen men beaten, carved to pieces, and shot since I turned ten. Johnson is the first man who died by my hand though. He's the first man I killed in the name of my future bride, and my gut tells me he won't be the last.