Predator

‘Where to?’

‘Ronnie Bunter has offered me my old job back at Bunter and Theobald. At least there I can do something to protect Catherine’s interests in the trust.’

‘Will you ever come back to me?’

‘I doubt it.’ She began to weep openly, but went on speaking through her tears: ‘I never imagined there could be any other man like you. But being with you is like living on the slopes of a volcano. One slope faces the sun. It is warm, fertile, beautiful and safe there. It is filled with love and laughter.’ She broke off to choke back a sob, before she went on. ‘The other slope of you is full of shadows and dark frightening things, like hatred and revenge; like anger and death. I would never know when the mountain would erupt and destroy itself and me.’

‘If I can’t stop you from going, then at least kiss me once more before you go,’ he said, and she shook her head.

‘No, if I kiss you it will weaken my resolve, and we will be stuck with each other forever. That must not happen. We were never meant for each other, Hector. We would destroy each other.’ She looked deeply into his eyes and went on softly, ‘I believe in the law, while you believe you are the law. I have to go, Hector. Goodbye, my love.’

She turned her back on him and went out through the door, closing it softly behind her.

There were two people Major Bobby Malinga wanted to talk to right away: the only two people outside the prison system who he knew for sure had been in contact with Johnny Congo after his arrival at the Polunsky Unit. And both fitted the description of ‘smart and rich’. The first of the pair to fit Malinga into his busy schedule was D’Shonn Brown. Malinga went to his private office. It was large, decorated with the kind of minimal, modern, tasteful understatement that screamed serious money far more cleverly than a gaudy display of lurid marble and gold ever could. The personal assistant who led Malinga in was an impeccably mannered woman whose plain, knee-length charcoal skirt suit and white silk blouse were both tailored to fit her trim figure perfectly, but without the remotest hint of titillation.

Though Brown had met a great many celebrities, business leaders and senior politicians, he did not display any photographs of those encounters on his walls. His diplomas for his undergraduate degree from Baylor, his master’s from Stanford Law and the state bar exams of both California and Texas, framed behind his desk, were the only overt sign of ego. And they were there for a very obvious and even necessary purpose. Several academic studies have shown that even the most liberal Caucasians harbour unconscious assumptions about the intellectual abilities of young African-American males. This was just a way of reminding visitors to D’Shonn Brown’s office that however smart they were, he was almost certainly smarter.

Malinga took off his hat. He was of the opinion that a man’s office was as personal to him as his house and courtesy demanded the removal of headgear in both places. There was no hat stand, so he placed the hat on the desk, sat down opposite Brown and looked at the impressive display behind him. ‘You sure spent a lot more time in school than I ever did,’ he said, going the self-deprecating, Columbo route.

Brown shrugged noncommittally, then asked, ‘What can I do for you, Major?’

‘You came to Huntsville for Johnny Congo’s execution,’ replied Malinga, getting out his notebook and pen. ‘How come?’

‘He reached out to me, through his attorney Shelby Weiss, and asked me to be there.’ Brown sounded relaxed, open, like an honest citizen with nothing to hide, doing his best to assist the police with their investigation.

‘So you’re a close friend of Congo’s?’

‘Not really. I hadn’t seen him since I was a kid. But he was tight with my brother Aleutian, who was killed last year. As far as I’m aware, Johnny Congo doesn’t have any family. So I guess I was the only person he could think of.’

‘Did he ask you to do anything else, aside from come to his execution?’

‘Johnny didn’t ask me anything directly. But Mr Weiss told me that he had expressed a wish for me to organize his funeral and also a memorial party in his honour.’

‘And you did this?’

‘Of course. I found a plot for Johnny’s grave, arranged flowers, a mortician and so on for the funeral and made preparations for the party, too. My assistant can give you all the details.’

‘Even though you hardly knew the man?’

‘I knew my brother and he knew Johnny. That was good enough for me.’

‘Who was paying for all this?’

‘Johnny paid. He arranged for me to be given money through Mr Weiss.’

‘How much money?’

‘Two million dollars,’ said Brown, without missing a beat, letting Malinga know that a sum like that was no big deal to him.

Malinga wasn’t nearly so cool about it. ‘Two million … for a funeral … you gotta be kidding me!’

‘Why?’ Brown asked. ‘Whatever you or I might think of Johnny Congo’s crimes, and I don’t deny that they were heinous, he was a very wealthy man. As I understand it, his lifestyle in Africa was extremely lavish. So he wanted to go out in style.’

‘And for that he needed two million dollars?’

‘It’s not a question of need, Major Malinga. No one needs to drop a million bucks on a wedding, or a birthday party, or a bar mitzvah, but there are plenty of people right here in this city who would do that without blinking. Hell, I’ve been to parties where Beyoncé was the cabaret, and there’s your two million, just for her. Johnny had the money. He wasn’t going to be spending it where he was going. Why not use it to give his guests a good time?’

‘OK … OK,’ said Malinga, just about accepting Brown’s logic. ‘So what happened to this money?’

‘I opened a special account, just for Johnny’s events. Some of it I spent, and again I can provide you with any receipts or documentation you require. The rest is still in the account, untouched.’

‘And you knew nothing about Congo’s escape plans?’

‘No, I knew about his plans for his funeral. And I had two million very good reasons for believing they were serious.’

‘So this all came as a total surprise to you?’

‘Yes, it did. I drove up to Huntsville, steeling myself for the experience of seeing a man die before my eyes – not something I’ve ever seen before, thank God. First I knew about any escape was a reporter sticking a mike in front of my face and asking me what I thought about it, live on TV. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Felt like a damn fool, if you really want to know.’

‘And none of that two million was used to buy the weapons, transportation or personnel used to free a convicted murderer and kill fifteen police officers and state officials?’

Brown looked Malinga straight in the eye. ‘No, absolutely not.’

‘Did Mr Weiss say anything to you that indicated the money should be used for such a purpose?’

‘What?’ For the first time Brown raised his voice. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that one of the state’s most respected criminal attorneys, together with a prominent businessman who is himself qualified to practise law, would have a conversation about the illegal seizure of a convicted killer?’

Malinga did not raise his. ‘I’m not making any suggestions, Mr Brown, I’m asking you a question.’

‘Well, the answer is an absolute, categorical “no”.’

‘OK then, here’s another. Did you have any communication with Johnny Congo, aside from what you heard from Mr Weiss?’

‘Again no. How could I have done? Prisoners awaiting execution have a very limited ability to communicate with anyone. And if Johnny had ever tried to speak or write to me, I imagine they’d have a record of it at the Polunsky Unit. Do they have such a record, Major Malinga?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there you go.’ Brown exhaled, letting the tension out. In his previously calm but authoritative style he said, ‘I think we’re done, don’t you? I appreciate that you’ve got a job to do, Major Malinga. So I’ll make this as simple and straightforward as I can. I had nothing whatever to do with Johnny Congo’s escape. I had no knowledge of any plans for such an escape. I was not involved in financing any illegal activities or purchases on Johnny Congo’s behalf. None of the money given to me to fund Johnny Congo’s funeral and memorial event has been used for anything other than the purpose for which it was intended. Are we clear on that?’

‘Guess so.’

‘Then I wish you good luck with your ongoing investigation. My assistant will show you out.’

Cross had a way of dealing with the pain that could hit a man when a woman had ripped his heart out through his chest, thrown it to the floor and then harpooned it with a single stab of her stiletto heel. First he sealed it up inside an imaginary thick lead box; then he dropped it, like radioactive waste, into the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. Once that was done, he got back to work.

Cross was already bearing down hard on his emotions and turning his thoughts to the two issues that would be dominating his life for the foreseeable future: the security of Bannock Oil’s Angolan operations, and the hunt for Johnny Congo. Now that his arch-enemy was at large once again, Cross knew that he would have to go back to war. Sooner or later, Congo would come after him, and when he did, there could only be one winner, one survivor.

He called Agatha, the personal assistant who’d been a secretary, confidante and unfailing ally to Hazel for years before transferring her allegiance to him. ‘John Bigelow wants me to talk to some State Department official called Bobby Franklin, but he never gave me a contact number. Call John’s office to get it, then call Franklin to set up a Skype meeting in the next couple of days.’