The Devil’s Kingdom: Part 2 of the best action adventure thriller you'll read this year!. Scott Mariani

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СКАЧАТЬ Grobler into the back. Grobler hesitated, then climbed in and sat on the plush leather seat with the case between his feet. The moment they got moving, Masango said, ‘I must ask you if you are armed, Mr Grobler. If so, please be so good as to let me have your weapon for a moment. I apologise for this intrusion, but my client is most particular.’

      Grobler had no choice but to let Masango have the gun. Masango received it with a gracious smile, dropped out the magazine, emptied the chamber, and returned the empty pistol to him. ‘You will have the bullets back later,’ he assured him.

      They drove for nearly half an hour through the wild Kinshasa traffic, dodging taxis and the yellow buses that ploughed the roads at high speed with little regard for human life. The paramilitary police presence was everywhere, but as no elections were currently taking place no actual tanks were rolling through the streets to quell the usual violent civil disturbances. Like so many African cities Kinshasa was a study in extremes, with great wealth and miserable poverty existing side by side. And it was southwards, away from the tree-lined boulevards, expensive villas, and high-rises towards the poorer districts where the local ‘Kinois’ lived in varying degrees of tin-roofed squalor on unpaved streets, that Grobler found himself being driven. It wasn’t what he’d expected, and he was increasingly restless. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he kept asking, but Masango just smiled and kept assuring him that they were nearly there.

      The car finally pulled up in a suburb of decaying concrete-block homes, where a feral gang of street kids were taking turns at smashing up a derelict car across the street with a sledgehammer. They fled at the approach of the Mercedes, which parked behind an unmarked black panel van in front of a dingy house. ‘What the hell is this bloody place?’ Grobler demanded. Masango stepped out of the car and motioned for him to follow. Grobler hesitated, thought of the money and swallowed hard. There was no turning back now.

      Masango led the way inside the house. Grobler, case in hand, found himself in a room with peeling walls, a single table and chair and two large black men flanking the doorway. Neither of them spoke to him as he walked in, and neither looked like a man with a Jaffa-sized uncut diamond to sell. Odours of mould and rat piss hung thick in the air.

      ‘Okay, so where’s your client?’ Grobler demanded, working hard to keep his composure. ‘You told me he’d be here. What kind of bullshit are you shovelling on me?’

      ‘I am authorised to act as his agent,’ Masango said calmly. ‘You will be dealing with me.’

      ‘You mean he’s not even coming? This is fucked, man. I’m not prepared to do business under these conditions, hear me? Take me back to the hotel. Right away.’

      ‘Mr Grobler, please. Do not make this difficult. Now, I would like to see the money.’

      ‘It’s all here,’ Grobler said angrily. ‘Five million US dollars. But you’re not seeing a damned penny of it until I see the diamond. Come on, man. That was the deal.’

      ‘Of course. We will take you to it after we finish counting the payment.’

      Grobler stared. His heart was beginning to thud. ‘Now wait a minute—’

      ‘Please open the case,’ Masango said quietly. When Grobler hesitated just a fraction too long, Masango gave a nod to one of the heavies. The big black man reached under his jacket and pulled out a huge, wide-bladed cleaver. Masango pointed at the chain and cuff securing the case to Grobler’s wrist. ‘I am sure you would rather open it yourself than have us relieve you of it in a more unpleasant fashion.’ He wasn’t talking about cutting the chain. Meat and bone were much easier to chop with a single blow.

      Blinking sweat from his eyes and in danger of letting go of his bowels, Grobler heaved the case onto the table, turned the combination dials to the number that his panicked mind had almost forgotten, and flipped open the locks. He understood enough to know that the business deal had become a robbery, but at this point he no longer cared about the diamond. The trade was now the money for his life, and he was all too willing to sacrifice five million in order to be able to walk out of here. He’d worry about the crippling financial loss later, once he was home safe with a stiff drink.

      The big thug with the knife hovered menacingly while Masango stepped forward to count out the blocks of cash crammed inside. Each was tightly compressed in plastic wrap. He used a pocket knife to slice one open at random and thumbed the banknotes with a practised hand, nodded to himself and examined several more before he seemed satisfied that it was all there.

      At last, Masango looked up from the table with a smile to the red-faced Grobler. The South African was dripping sweat. It was staining through his shirt. Masango said, ‘Very good. General Khosa thanks you for the donation to his cause.’

      It was Khosa himself who had come up with the scheme. He’d begun this enterprise with every intention of selling the diamond on, for an accordingly reduced sum that reflected its nature as a hot item of stolen property. It was only after owning the fabulous object for a couple of days and falling in love with its beauty that he’d realised there was another, much better, way to raise revenue from it. Every criminal diamond fence in Africa would jump at the chance to acquire it at a bargain price, knowing that even as stolen goods they could pass it down the line for a vast profit margin. Its enormous size allowed it to be broken down into a good number of stones that, once cut, would each be unusually large in its own right. Being crooks themselves, they naturally would tell nobody of the wonderful opportunity that had come their way.

      Idiots. The lure of the diamond would reel them in, like lambs to the slaughter, one after another. Five million dollars multiplied by the number of greedy fools who would fall for the trick could generate a sum well in excess of what the rock was actually worth, while Khosa still got to keep it for himself. It was the kind of simple, brutal little scam that the General loved.

      Of course, once the money had changed hands there was the issue of making sure the fences kept their mouths shut. That was the easy part.

      Grobler gaped, too winded with horror to utter a sound, as Masango picked a large empty holdall from the floor by the table and started transferring the money into it. Cramming in the last stack with some difficulty, he zipped the holdall shut and hauled it off the table. Masango then left the room, closing the door behind him. Grobler now found himself alone with Masango’s thugs. All four of them were suddenly clutching knives and advancing on him with stone faces.

      And now he did let go of his bowels.

      ‘Please,’ he croaked, holding out his hands in supplication as he backed away, with nowhere to go. ‘Please.’

      The four men closed in on him. They made it quick, not out of mercy for their victim but simply because the sooner they got it done, the sooner they would receive their tiny cut of the money.

      When they’d finished with Grobler, they sheathed their knives, waited for Masango to unlock the door and then left the house. Moments after the Mercedes and the black van had gone, the street kids returned to continue bashing the derelict car. It would be a long time before anyone found the body inside the empty house. And even when whatever remains the rats had left were discovered, nobody would care. This was Africa, and no one had a deeper understanding of that fact than Jean-Pierre Khosa and his associates.

       Chapter 12

      It had been a long and difficult night, that first spent inside the cage. With no blanket to pull over himself, Jude curled up on the hard, bare floor mattress and hugged his sides in a futile attempt to СКАЧАТЬ