CHAPTER THREE
General Arosi informed Constable Shaka that a provincial chopper was outside and would transport him and his brother’s body to Provincial Headquarters where they were to be transferred to a SAPF Air Wing Pilatus PC 12 single engine turboprop passenger and cargo aircraft and transported to KwaZulu-Natal where Constable Shaka’s home village was located.
Constable Shaka said goodbye to Constable Stanislov and General Arosi and left the Metropolitan Bank following his brother’s body as it was pushed out in a collapsible gurney.
“Gentlemen, the Radium? Shall we?” asked General Arosi looking at Sergeant Night and Constable Stanislov.
“Yeah let’s go” replied Night.
“Not today General,” said Stanislov. “I have a previous engagement that I cannot neglect, besides my liver is still recovering from the last time I went out to have a ‘couple’ of drinks with you two.”
“Sounds mysterious, constable. A woman perhaps?” smiled General Arosi
“He has a habit of being mysterious General with the greatest mystery being a Russian who doesn’t drink properly.”
“I do drink properly it’s just that you South Africans don’t make decent vodka and you drink to get drunk while I drink because I like good vodka.”
“I take offence to that constable – the General and I have never been drunk a day in our lives.”
The three men laughed a painful laugh.
“Ok Stani, I will talk to you in a few days then and we will start tracking down our new enemy. I think it’s best if we took a few days off following today’s happenings. Is that OK with you General?”
“Yes, that’s perfectly fine. Take ten days. Constable Shaka should be finished with tribal business by then. I also have some private Close Protection work for you Mike, if you are interested that is.”
Constable Stanislov left in the Beast and Sergeant Night and General Arosi travelled in the General’s state vehicle driven by his bodyguard and driver Constable Tony Tshabalala. They headed for the Radium Beerhall a few minutes down Louis Botha Avenue.
Established in 1929, the Radium Beerhall is the oldest surviving bar and grill in Johannesburg. It is situated on the main traffic artery Louis Botha Avenue in Orange Grove. Not far away drug dealers reign in Hillbrow and in the opposite direction gangsters swagger in Alexandra Township. But the Radium had improbably survived and flourished.
For decades it had been a favoured hangout for newspapermen. The walls are covered in bizarre newspaper posters like THE AIR IS VROT WITH TENSION (vrot is an Afrikaans word meaning rotten.) There are photos of jazzmen who have played there and press clippings that record the Radium's colourful history.
Opened as a tearoom by the Khalil family in 1929, the Radium also operated as an illegal shebeen. It sold liquor to black customers who were barred from drinking "white man's liquor." Eventually a wine and malt licence was acquired and the Tearoom became a Beerhall. The ancient scarred bar, which is now more than 100 years old, was rescued from the demolition of the Ferreirastown Hotel.
A new era arrived in 1986 with the advent of Manny Cabeleira, a strong character who added some Portuguese flair and replaced the billiard room with a restaurant. It was a new Radium, anticipating the New South Africa by quite a few years with a cosmopolitan mix of new customers, including blacks -- and women, who had been banned during the macho epoch. Then came live music and a Radium tradition -- the Fat Sound 19-piece jazz band performs on the first Sunday of every month. The orchestra is a jazz powerhouse, fuelled by original arrangements by members of the band, especially its colourful leader, British trombonist John Davis who always wears a white hat. Always.
Sergeant Night recalled how just a couple of weekends past a shootout occurred at the Princess Shebeen directly across the road from the Radium. Shebeens were very common in South Africa, servicing the poorest drinking man by providing cheap, strong booze. Often unlicensed and without running water or electricity, the majority of these taverns were breeding grounds for criminal activity and often caused death and destruction through paralytic drunken behaviour.
The Princess was different in the fact that it had electricity and water, pool and soccer tables and was grander than most, attracting large crowds of men and women who lived a hand to mouth existence and had nothing to lose except the beer in their hand.
The Princess was a constant headache to the Norwood Police Station and it was responsible for a large percentage of the crime statistics on any given weekend. It also attracted a fair amount of off duty police officers from the Norwood police barracks, literally a couple of minutes’ walk down the road. No man in Africa is immune to the lure of cheap strong booze, Sergeant Night thought.
The particular incident Sergeant Night was remembering involved an off duty police officer getting in an argument with another man over a pint of spilt beer and eventually chasing him out of the shebeen while shooting at him. An innocent bystander was hit just outside the Radium while another round miraculously lodged itself in the thin railing just outside of the venue, narrowly sparing the customers who were packed inside while listening to some jazz.
Constable Tshabalala parked their vehicle outside the Radium on the one way 9th Street in Orange Grove. As they walked down 9th Street Sergeant Night noticed that the Princess shebeen across Louis Botha Avenue was still closed. He scanned right and left looking for any criminal activity. The café on the right was clear, no armed robberies taking place. The bicycle shop on the left also clear.
Sergeant Night and any decent police officer in South Africa knew to always be tactically aware of his surroundings. It was always possible to walk into an armed robbery in progress or past one and being in uniform they would be targeted first without warning. The men entered the Radium, again making sure it was not in the middle of a stick up, though the Radium would be a stupid place to rob with all members of staff carrying private pistols licenced for self-defence. There were two powerful and respected bartenders, Fernando and Tsepho and a crazy alcoholic chef who often greeted any complaining diners with a wry grin and a butcher’s knife in hand. Although it was rare that anybody would complain about the food at the Radium. It was grand. And well-priced too.
Sergeant Night and General Arosi took up their usual position at the bar -- at a corner with their backs to a wall. They had a perfect view of anybody entering or leaving the Beerhall. The General’s bodyguard and driver Tony had taken a seat at a table on a platform a level higher and overlooking his principal as he usually did. And as usual he was in plain clothes. Nobody would suspect who he was. Which was the objective.
Fernando greeted the two uniformed officers and ignored Tony. Sergeant Night always respected him for this and smiled at the thought that Fernando was also somehow a police officer, deep undercover.
“General, Sarge” he nodded.
“Hello Fernando, how are you today?” inquired the General.
“Good, thank you. Well as good as I can be with world war three breaking out around me, again.”
“Ah yes I suppose you heard the commotion.”
“You call that a commotion General? It sounded as though 50 men were involved in trying to kill each other, again. I heard Nine mills, AKs, police assault rifles and shotguns… pretty much like the one you are carrying now Sarge. I suppose you were involved hey and that’s why you are in the area hey General?”
“We must be mistaken Mike, I thought we had walked into a bar not a police station.”
“Ah, I get it I am behaving more like a cop than a bartender, right General?”
“Something like that Fernando. Could we get a drink now?”
“Sure. And I am glad you officers are all right; the usual?”
“Sure, it wouldn’t be usual otherwise. And two tequilas.”
South African Police Force National Standing Orders forbid uniformed officers to drink alcohol while still in police uniform in a public bar. However, some time ago National Headquarters had granted the Radium Beerhall off
icial status as a policemen’s bar. This permitted uniformed officers to drink on the premises under two conditions. One, that they removed their rank insignia and two, that they surrendered their weapons to the establishment for safekeeping under lock and key. Condition one was largely followed.
As Sergeant Night and General Arosi removed their rank insignia Fernando placed their drinks on the bar -- a double Captain Morgan and Coke for the General and a double Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks for Sergeant Night and the two Tequilas with lemon and salt on the side.
“Your weapons gentlemen?” asked the wily bartender with a cheeky grin.
“Why do you always ask, my friend, when you know the answer?” said the General with a twinkle and a smile.
General Amos Arosi was a well-travelled man. He had spent time in Europe and then Russia where he had received military training while in exile during a large part of the apartheid era. When he returned to South Africa he fought in the infamous border war and against the apartheid regime and was instrumental in a number of unofficial military campaigns that ultimately led to the new government being elected to power in 1994. He was offered the position of National Police Commissioner for his services but declined, choosing rather to join the force at a lower level and work his way up through the ranks. Of course he was fast-tracked up the promotional ladder but his pragmatic approach earned him great respect among the men and even with the old guard of the time, gaining him many influential allies.
Amos Arosi was a light-heavyweight boxer as a younger guy and was known for knocking his opponents out with his sheer power but he had little stamina. Now as an older man he was more bulk than muscle as often happens with athletes as they age but this suited him well, making him appear somewhat of a human battle tank. He was formidable in mind and body. Dark skinned with a full moustache, unlike most officers he never wore his ceremonial rank and medals while on duty. Rather he wore the much more discreet field and duty insignia under his combat gear while on patrol. Sergeant Night respected this as he too realised that being an officer and in command was a state of being and not a matter of the Stars and Castles on one’s shoulders. The General was well respected and a powerhouse in any situation yet his immediate characteristics were his large smile and friendly manner.
“Because, General, it is the law, of course.”
“It’s not because it’s the law. It’s because he enjoys having the power to ask for them. Isn’t that right Fernando” interjected Sergeant Night.
“Something like that Sarge,” and he turned and walked away.
“I like him” said the General.
“So do I” agreed Sergeant Night.
“Na Zdorovie my friend.”
“Cheers General.”
They licked the salt off the back of their hands, downed the ice cold shot of Jose Cuervo Gold Tequila and enjoyed the lemon afterwards.
The Sergeant and the General sat in silence. It was not an awkward stillness, it never was. The quietness was in fact probably the reason the two men got on so well. They never felt the need to make idle chit chat, to talk about the weather or how the football game played out over the weekend. Two old souls just enjoying each other’s quiet company while their minds played over the many issues of morality and of being.
About ten minutes later and without request Fernando walked over to the two men and placed in front of them on the bar another round of drinks. The men nodded thank you. And downed their Tequilas.
“So what’s our next move General?”
“Well, nothing. Nothing for the time being.”
“Nothing huh.”
“Yes Mike nothing. Yet,” said the General.
The General continued: “Today you saw the most wanted and perhaps the most dangerous man in South Africa. For years we have searched for him, set up pots of fake gold to try and lure him out of his heavily fortified and well camouflaged lair hidden deep within Alexandra Township surrounded by innocent civilians he uses as human shields. We have put out a reward of five million rand on his head. Everything we have done so far, all to no avail. Yet today in broad daylight he accompanies his men on a small bank job.”
“Yeah, according to the Warrant Officer they only got away with about a million in cash.”
“Indeed seems strange. Did the Warrant Officer mention anything else?”
“He did. He muttered to himself something about a consignment coming in from Libya being flagged by Intelligence.”
“Ah yes. Perhaps...”
“Look I am all for this cloak and dagger stuff but could you please tell me what the hell this Libya business is all about” said Sergeant Night impatiently.
“Of course Mike, I will get there but it still does not make sense that he would accompany his men or rob the bank at all. Unless he believes he is near his end game. OK, let’s start with the Libya business. You are of course aware of the uprising across the Middle East?”
“Yes.”
“You are also aware of the fact that the Libyan Regime has fallen?”
“Yes.”
“I am sure you are also conscious of the reported relationship between the now old Libyan Regime and the Zimbabwean dictatorship.”
“Yes, it has been well reported in the media.”
“Do you remember what this relationship revolved around?”
“Well like most African dictators it revolved around money I am sure.”
“Yes but more specifically large amounts of gold, diamonds and US dollars.”
“Ah yes, it was reported that a ‘treasure’ had been secretly taken to Zimbabwe for safe keeping while the family tried to flee Libya.”
“Yes, taken to Zimbabwe, that was what was reported” said the General, taking another mouthful of his Captain Morgan and Coke and looking at Sergeant Night with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Here? The loot has been brought here to South Africa? To the Metropolitan Bank?”
“No. Well, not to the Metropolitan Bank, not the gold anyway.”
“Well then where is the link? And if not the gold then what? Now you have lost me.”
“A map, Mike.”
“A map? A map to what, the buried treasure hidden somewhere in Zimbabwe?” By now Sergeant Night was laughing.
“Yes and no. Yes a map and no, not in Zimbabwe.”
“I think we need another round please Fernando, the General needs his medicine.”
Fernando looked up from pouring two tequilas.
“Already on the way Sarge.”
“It makes sense Mike, when you know all the details it makes perfect sense.”
“I obviously don’t know all the details then, do I General.”
“Obviously. And that’s because you aren’t asking the right question.”
“I haven’t been asking any questions General. You have simply being drip feeding me bits of information that you have received from the National Crime Intelligence Unit due to the fact that you are a General” said Sergeant Night coolly.
“Touché.” The General smiled his dangerously charming smile.
“Well, are you going to tell me or not.”
“I will tell you when you ask the right question.”
The two men paused. For two reasons. One, to down another round of tequila that had just arrived and two, to enjoy the mental engagement.
About five minutes later Sergeant Night said: “This devil character, this ‘uSathane’, he is former Zim Military, right?”
“No. Current. He is still a serving Zim soldier a Colonel within the ZNA.”
“Then that makes even more sense. I suppose he holds a personal relationship with Mad Bob himself?”
“Yes, he reports directly to him. Once a week according to our Intel and he sends consignments of cash back to him gained from his criminal activities here once a month. In Dollars and South African Rands. In return he keeps his rank and is supplied with weapons and young men from the Zimbabwean National Army.”
“A typically cosy African
relationship then.”
“Indeed, Mike.”
The men paused again enjoying their respective juices of choice and Sergeant Night absorbing the information, finding it all rather intriguing.
“I’m still missing something though aren’t I” said Mike thoughtfully.
“Yes you are.”
“A clue?” asked Sergeant Night, now thoroughly enjoying himself, the tequila and Johnny Walker now doing their job.
“Think more about what was reported in the media about the Libyan Colonel this time and his purported plans for the future. This should lead you to the final piece of the puzzle.”
Sergeant Night started to mentally replay all the news he’d read about the Libyan debacle on his laptop. At first nothing of interest, nothing of a substantial link to South Africa--and then he remembered.
“Ah yes. The Karoo. It was rumoured the Colonel wanted to flee Libya and settle in the Karoo and live a desert life.”
“Indeed.”
“So you are telling me that Gadhafi buried a huge amount of gold, diamonds and US dollars somewhere in the Karoo Desert then had a map made, detailing where the ‘Buried Treasure’” -- Sergeant Night gestured with his hands making the inverted commas sign – “is and sent it to the Metropolitan Bank in Orange Grove so that a serving Colonel of the Zimbabwean National Army and notorious Johannesburg crime lord could go and get it?”
“No.” The General smiled. “All the Intel as we have it and as we have been able to piece together goes like this Mike.”
“Before you continue General, is it prudent to have this discussion here, in public like this?” interjected Sergeant Night.
“Yes it’s perfectly OK, nobody is in earshot.”
“What about other means of eavesdropping?”
“I thought you knew. I have this placed TCSM’d once a week. The last sterilisation was carried out early this morning in fact.”
“Technical Counter Surveillance Measures, here at the Radium Beerhall?”
“Yes I thought you knew. After all the conversations we have on Crime Intelligence and so on. And of course because this bar is formally recognised as a Policemen’s Bar.”
“OK then, forgive the interruption and please continue.” Night raised his glass to the General.
“In short, our Intel suggests it is true that Gadhafi has buried an incredibly large amount of gold, blood diamonds and US dollars in the Karoo desert. Our reports propose he did it by contacting his old friend Bob and requesting his assistance in moving the treasure, as you call it. This is as far as the information goes. Hence the reason they believe the gold was sent to Zimbabwe. But in fact we know that it was only a call for assistance to the Zimbabwean dictator.”
“So was he involved then?”
“Yes. But not in taking delivery of the gold. We have evidence that he contacted a number of mercenary groups, or as you know in modern times known as Private Military Companies or PMCs to move the gold. His offer was declined by the most reputable PMCs. But we believe the contract was finally accepted by a Rambo type outfit based in London or the UAE.”
“So were they successful in their contract?”
“Partly. We believe they entered Libya early on in the uprising before it gathered momentum and before the no fly zone was in force. Our reports suggest that they flew out the gold in a Ukrainian built Antonov AN-225 and landed it in Harare, Zimbabwe. We believe that from there the Mercs transported the gold, blood diamonds and cash in a convoy of about a dozen or so Land Cruiser 4x4s across the Zimbabwean-Botswana border and then into South Africa via the Botswana border and finally into the Karoo Desert – we are unsure about how they completed the final leg of their journey.”
“So that’s the part that was successful I take it?” asked Sergeant Night.
“Yes. Apparently that part of the mission was successful. Although we still don’t know how they buried the gold, they would have required heavy earth moving equipment but then again this country is built on the mining industry so that wouldn’t have been a problem. The failure occurred while trying to complete the second part of the contract, in trying to extract the dictator from Libya. As you and the rest of the world now know, this part of the contract was a massive failure and led to the death of Gadhafi.”
“Some say this happened by no chance,” said Night. “That they were designed to fail. In fact one of the operators involved and interviewed on the matter believes they were set up. Is there any truth in this?”
“Yes. We are certain the mission was sabotaged. By whom, we are not 100 per cent sure. None of the original Mercs who were contracted for the ‘burial’ job remain alive, bar the one talking to the press, the man you refer to. There is however a hit out on him and he knows it. Latest Intel suggests he is going to look for refuge within the SAPF CIU. And now after today’s events that looks almost certain. Any thoughts on who the prime suspect in putting this all together might be Mike?”
“Mad Bob. He benefits the most. All loose ends tied up.”
“Indeed.”
“So he sent his Colonel to collect the map from the bank?”
“One would think so. And it’s not exactly a map. It is in fact GPS coordinates.”
“A little less romantic then.”
“Indeed. But coordinates to wealth beyond measure. More money than a hundred men could spend in a life time.”
Finishing the last of his current Johnny Walker Red Sergeant Night asked the question General Arosi knew he was going to ask.
“How much? General, what’s the valuation on all of the treasure?”
“We are not sure Mike. No one even wants to hazard a guess. Partly I believe because it almost seems unimaginable. A sort of cannot-be.”
“But surely…”
“Yes I know, surely we must have some sort of idea. Well we don’t but I know you simply won’t accept that answer so I will give you a figure. Billions, in any currency.”
“Whoa that’s a lot of ammo” said Sergeant Night using the South African Police Force slang word for cash.
“Indeed Mike, indeed.”
“So to start the cycle once more. What’s our next move General?” said Night with a grin.
“Still nothing. For we still haven’t answered the question of why Colonel Satan went with his men to rob the bank or for that matter why they robbed the bank at all.”
“That question did in fact cross my mind. Surely Mad Bob would have simply addressed the map to uSathane or given him the documentation to access the safety deposit box.”
“Exactly.”
The two men sat in silence once more. Then a number of men who had begun trickling into the bar as the day wore on took their opportunity and greeted the two men. One by one they approached and paid their respects to both police officers. Some stood to attention and others went further and saluted. It was unusual for a non-commissioned officer such as a Sergeant to be saluted. Sergeant Night had given up some time ago on trying to dissuade fellow officers from doing so. Also bearing in mind that Sergeant Night should rightfully have been a Captain by now. His promotion was held up because of all the cases of murder and assault that were pending against him.
His immediate superiors knew that he was not guilty of any of the charges and all his shootings had been lawful and righteous and that the assault cases were opened up against him by criminals intent on revenge or having their own legitimate charges dropped. Sergeant Night knew that a lot of his superiors didn’t like him. They didn’t like his reputation and notoriety and they certainly didn’t like his friendship with perhaps the most powerful police officer in Johannesburg and arguably South Africa. General Arosi couldn’t help with the Sergeant’s promotion and had formally recused himself from the promotions board dealing with all of Norwood’s advancements. To compound things it certainly didn’t help that he was a white man. Most importantly, though, it didn’t matter to Michael Night. He wasn’t in it for the rank and didn’t plan on being a lifer in the force anywa
y.
“One last round Mike.”
“Sure.”
“My hypothesis is this Mike. I believe uSathane carried out the bank job in an attempt to somehow get to you and your men. The way I see it is that there are two mighty rulers battling for Control of the streets of Norwood. The Sheriff - you - and your men. And the Mafia Boss if you like, uSathane, and his men.”
“Me General, little old me, causing problems for the Devil himself?”
“Ha-ha, absolutely. I have told you previously of our monthly crime intelligence reports at Provincial HQ. You and your men have been directly responsible in one way or another for the reduction of 35% of all reported incidents of violent crime in the Norwood precinct. And more specifically a 60% drop in the success rate of bank robberies, hijackings and ATM explosions. Basically if uSathane was a businessman you have been dramatically messing with his bottom line and profit margins.”
“Fantastic.”
“Yes good, but for this reason we must not react to today’s happenings but rather consider our position on the board. And carefully consider our next move.”
“Okay commander what do you want me to do? My best friend’s little brother is dead, his arms and legs cut off. I know who the man responsible is and that man also threatened to kill me.”
“What would you normally do?”
“March into Alexander Township and kill the bastard and all who serve him.”
“Exactly. I rest my case. That is what he would expect you to do and that is why you must do nothing. It will put all the power back in our court. By doing nothing immediately we will regain Control of the chess board and confuse our enemy.”
“So what, then?”
“Well it will take Daniel at least a week to see to his brother’s funeral and follow all tribal rituals. So in the meantime go fishing. Take that lovely girl Lisa and go to the Vaal River for a couple of days. You can stay at a little time share I have down there. Then when you come back I have some Close Protection work for you - Looking after a client of mine while she attends two days in court. And finally I have some new recruits that need some on-the-street training. That should keep you busy and your mind nice and occupied until I formulate our response and gather more vital intelligence.”
“Okay General. I will follow your plan. Thank you Amos.”
“My pleasure. Now let’s finish these drinks and I’ll have Tony drop you off at home.”