Chapter 12
It was pitch black outside the house, and Markham stood for a moment on the doorstep, letting his eyes adjust. He turned in the direction of Mawabane. There were no lights in the sky. He looked down the drive from the house, and could just make out the dark shape of the BMW.
He walked up to the car quietly and wrenched open the driver’s door. Bo woke with a muffled scream.
“Christ man, you’ll give me a heart attack, creeping up like that.”
Markham closed the door, walked round the back of the car, got in the front passenger seat.
“What a fuck up, Bo,”
“The menu no good?”
“The battle, that’s what I’m talking about. The coup that took place tonight and failed.”
“What coup was this? Nobody told me about no coup. Here, you mean? Mawasatiland?”
“Yes. The prince was going to attack Mawabane. Then he got killed. You hear those planes bombing? I paid for those, and an army. It was a fuckup.”
“I didn’t hear nothing.”
“Because you were unconscious, sleeping like a baby, until I woke you.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was reading this magazine here. I didn’t fall asleep until just before you woke me.”
Markham stared at him. “Put the radio on, Bo. You can tune in to Maswatiland State radio, or whatever it’s called?”
“It’s called Radio Maswatiland. It’s number seven or maybe eight. Here,
let me switch it on.” He pressed buttons, and classical music came from the speakers.”
“Is there a news programme?”
“Yes, this one. Every hour on the hour.” He looked at his wristwatch. “In about four minutes. Enjoy some proper music in the meantime.”
“I might need a pistol.” Bo looked at Markham.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Maybe kill somebody who has tricked me.”
“Then, no, you can’t have mine.”
“Extra bonus, two hundred pounds?”
“Oh well, now you’re talking.” He snapped down the glove compartment lid, pulled a small pistol out, point two-two calibre, handed it to Markham, butt first.
“It’s a bit small, but better than nothing.”
“You just got to get up close, is what.” The music faded out, and a presenter was speaking.
“Listen.” Markham strained forward.
The announcer said: “This is Radio Maswatiland on 63FM. News at nine o’clock. The king is tonight attending the recital at the Mawabane National Theatre, accompanied by his wife. Other news: an incident took place across the border to the south when two cars crashed after attempting to run the border post. Three arrests were made, and the prisoners will attend court tomorrow. The weather tomorrow, sunny with high cloud, eighteen to twenty degrees. Next news at ten o’clock.”
Markham felt physically sick. Conned. There had been no attempted coup. He wrenched open the door, and jumped out.
“Bring the car up to the house. I’ll be ahead of you. Keep the engine running.”
He ran up to the house, moving pretty fast now that he had discarded his ankle plaster. He had the gun in his hand. He continued up the steps, and through the front door, leaving it swinging behind him. He let off two shots into the ceiling.
“Come out, you con men!” shouting at the top of his voice. Went through the dining room, and into an ante room. Speakers, and sound equipment, a play deck, audio tape on large reels. He stopped briefly to examine it, threw what appeared to be the main switch. The reels turned slowly, the noise from the speakers gushed out sounds of gunfire.
Markham was incensed beyond speech. Over the sounds from the tapes he heard urgent movements from the further reaches of the building. He wrenched open the door on the farther side of the room, to catch sight of somebody exiting the next room at speed.
He paused to think. They would be outside the back of the house. They must have at least one vehicle, he surmised. If he tried to chase them on foot, they would climb into a vehicle and he would lose them. He turned and retraced his way to the front door, racing down the steps, shouting at Bo.
“Quick, we need to be at the back of the house.” Whilst he was shouting he was climbing into the BMW. Bo started to reverse from the house at the same time, swinging the wheel to miss the steps, and screeched into the shrubbery down the side of the building. Markham, strapping himself in at the same time lowering the passenger window, winced as the branches scraped the sides of the vehicle. He was tempted to blast Bo about wrecking his car, but restrained himself. To catch McBride and his buddies was paramount. What was the cost of a BMW compared to ten million pounds sterling?
“How many bullets in here?” waving the pistol in front of Bo.
“Six before you started shooting. And don’t wave it at me, or I might get angry.”
“Any spares in the car?”
“Another magazine in the glove compartment. Six in it.”
Markham scrabbled his hand inside the glove compartment, pulling out service books and guides, throwing them over his shoulder, then found the magazine, slipped it into his jacket pocket. The car rocked over the uneven ground, and then burst out of the bushes. In front of them, a Range Rover, all doors and hatchback open, people loading the back. He recognized Sophie, now in jeans and T-shirt. But still looking good for it. McBride was there as well. And the waiter, still in uniform. There was a fourth man, probably the cook. At the sound of the BMW crashing out of the undergrowth, the people around the Range Rover were pinned in the BMW headlights, now on full beam.
Markham leaned out of his open window, aimed at McBride and pulled the trigger. He heard the bullet hit the car with a ping. Damn, missed. He took aim again but the BMW was rocking over the bumpy ground.
At the sound of the bullet, the tableau before Markham broke into frantic movement, everyone leaping for the open doors of the Range Rover, which gunned its engine and headed down the paved track. Bo accelerated to follow it. Markham kept his head out of the window and fired a couple more times, aiming at the windows. He realized that the bullets were unlikely to pierce the chunky tyres.