Counterfeit! Page 14

  Suzanne was once again outraged by this response—and even more so by the self-satisfied expression on the face of the Minister as he looked around the room at his visitors. She wondered whether Mukooyo was alone in his opinions—or whether this was the prevailing view of other authorities in Africa. Well, if it is, she thought, it’s a view we’re going to have to try to change.

  ‘But you’re not supplying your people’s needs—you’re harming them. Why, in some cases, you’re actually killing them—especially the young children.’ But the Minister was shaking his head indulgently at her.

  ‘Miss Jones, you are young, idealistic. I admire that. And in an ideal world, I would love to be able to agree with you. But we’re living in the real world here. I just can’t afford to look too closely at where my supplies come from.’

  ‘And the deaths of children?’ she asked again.

  ‘Miss Jones, this is Africa. Children die every day—from disease, from malnutrition, from violence. Who’s to say that the ones who die because of counterfeit drugs, even if we could prove that was the cause—who’s to say they wouldn’t have died anyway?’

  ‘So you’re not prepared to act as a champion for the pilot scheme here in Kenya?’ she said, face burning and unshed tears not far from the surface. The Minister looked at her with a look of shock and surprise.

  ‘I didn’t say that. Of course I’m willing to back the campaign. I’m not a monster, Miss Jones. I would much prefer not to take a risk with the health of the people of Kenya. I’m just explaining why we can’t solve the problem overnight. So, what do you want me to do?’

  Needing time to recover from Mukooyo’s abrupt change of direction, Suzanne indicated that WB should take over at this point and her Ugandan team member explained about training courses aimed at the pilot companies; the working party to try and equalise the regulations across the Continent; and the pressure being exerted on the customs authorities to crack down on illegal shipments of drugs.

  ‘Of course, it’s the suitcase merchants who’ll be the hardest to find,’ he said, referring to the individuals who crossed the borders with just a few packs of drugs in briefcases or other hand baggage. ‘But if we can make a start on the major dealers, hopefully we can shut down some of the supply routes.’

  The group spent the next fifteen minutes discussing tactical points; then the Minister’s PA arrived at his elbow, pointing to her watch. Mukooyo stood up and held out his hand to Suzanne.

  ‘I’m sorry; I have to go now. I have another meeting in just a few minutes time—and no, WB, it is NOT at the softball arena. Miss Jones, I wish you good luck with your project.’ He paused as she raised her eyebrow at him and then went on with a smile, ‘I’m sorry, I mean our project; and I’ll get some of my team to work on the pilot scheme first thing in the morning. I’ll be in touch.’

  As they filed out of the office, Mukooyo called after them: ‘and don’t forget to let me know how you enjoy the restaurant tonight. Do try the crocodile: it’s very tasty, like a fishy kind of chicken.’ They could hear him chuckling as they walked down the corridor to the elevator.

  23: KENYA; DEC 2004

  When Suzanne and Charlie arrived in the back of Chibesa’s beaten up old saloon, WB was waiting for them outside the Game Park restaurant.

  Charlie had been appalled by the sights they’d seen as they drove through the streets of Nairobi, and although Suzanne had been there before, she too was horrified. Soon after they’d left their hotel, the elegant shops, smart town houses and villas gave way to a shanty town of broken down huts: corrugated roofing perched precariously atop lopsided walls of breeze block or wooden panelling. Light was provided by cables with occasional bulbs, strung across the narrow lanes between the buildings, like neglected Christmas tree decorations in which failed bulbs had not been replaced. Adverts in garish colours jostled for elbow room with lines of washing. And every space was crowded; mainly with women and children—many, many children. ‘We have to succeed,’ Suzanne had said as she looked into the eyes of a young child gazing up out of the mud and the filth to watch the car go by, ‘these are the victims. We can’t fail them.’

  Now, as they climbed from the car, the surroundings changed again. They were on the hilltop Walter Mukooyo had pointed out earlier in the day, overlooking the city. The sprawl of the slums gave way to the skyscrapers in the distance. But here, they were surrounded by bush land: trees and shrubs growing lush and barely held in check by barbed wire fences. Suzanne felt the energy in the game park just metres from where they stood and fancied she could see the animals watching them from their hiding places in the undergrowth. The occasional roar, snarl, creak and howl confirmed that they were not alone—and were not far from nature in the raw.

  WB bowed to Suzanne and offered her his arm. Chibesa similarly paired up with Charlie and the four strolled through the artfully-arranged screen of pampas grass—over two metres high and in full bloom with creamy fronds of froth bending gently in the evening breeze—into a scene of epic proportions. The restaurant area was open to the sky; diners sat at circular tables under thatched canopies, illuminated by floating tea lights in glass dishes. Their chairs were covered in zebra-patterned material, so soft to the touch that Suzanne suspected it was made from real pelts. Waiters, wearing similarly black and white striped aprons, and straw boaters, flitted from table to table, dispensing drinks, taking orders or delivering food.

  The barbecue pits and ovens were in the centre of the restaurant, set in a massive square and attended on each side by three or four chefs. Even from the distance, the heat was palpable and the chefs frequently mopped their brows with the cloths tucked in their waistbands. Meats in many shapes and sizes, from tiny chicken hearts and liver to haunches of zebra and giraffe, were roasting on the racks above and in front of the charcoal filled pits. Waiters carried the cooked meats, still on skewers like miniature swords, around the restaurant. To one side, there was a huge, circular bar and at the other end, the fake market trolleys of a salad table.

  Chibesa bet Charlie she couldn’t manage a piece of every meat on the menu—and she accepted the challenge. They sat at the table wrangling in a friendly manner and egging each other on to try even more of the tempting treats on offer. Suzanne, never a big meat eater at the best of times, decided to play it safe and only choose meat she recognised, but Charlie was much more adventurous.

  ‘Hey, sis, you MUST try this crocodile. It tastes…’

  ‘…just like chicken?’

  ‘Well, actually, I was going to say a cross between chicken and prawn, but if it’ll make you happier, then yes, it tastes just like chicken.’

  They all agreed some of the meats were more palatable than others; those reared specifically for eating—chicken, beef and goat—had more familiar flavours, whereas the wild animals that had grown up naturally in the bush, were more gamey—a little bit musty in some ways.

  ‘I suppose that’s only to be expected when you’re eating carnivores,’ said WB; ‘the herbivores have a much healthier lifestyle and their meat tastes better as a result.’

  As she joined WB at the salad table, Suzanne suddenly felt as though she was being watched and turned slowly in a circle, casually scanning the crowded tables. She nearly missed her. She was so tiny and was seated partly hidden behind a plant pot overflowing with ferns, but by shifting sideways to get a clearer view, Suzanne was certain. It was Lily Harawa from Ndola. Her companion was sitting with his back to Suzanne and she was surprised to feel herself flushing at the possibility of meeting up with Nathan once more. Then, as Lily leaned forward to whisper urgently in his ear, he turned and glanced over his shoulder, looking straight at Suzanne. And it wasn’t Nathan. Same build, same height, same slightly long curly hair, but the face was sharper, crueller somehow, and there was certainly no smile for her. Suzanne shivered and tried to straighten out her thoughts. She was glad Lily wasn’t here with Nathan; she was sorry Nathan wasn’t here, although there was no reason why he should be; she was dis
appointed for Nathan if Lily was seeing someone else—she’d come to the reluctant conclusion that he still had feelings for his young relative—and she’d thought they were reciprocated. But most of all, she was disturbed to feel the girl’s eyes on her in this way. She’d been quite friendly when they first met at the rose farm, but somewhere along the line, the friendly manner had disappeared and all Suzanne could sense now was hostility. She wondered whether she should say anything to WB, and was turning towards him when Charlie called to her from their table.

  ‘Hey, come on, sis; you can’t come to a great barbecue place like this and eat salad, for Pete’s sake!’ Suzanne suspected her sister had drunk rather more of the strong rum punches than was good for her. She hurried back to the table to try and quieten her down, although in the hubbub of this busy restaurant, very few people would have been able to hear her. When she looked back at the other side of the room a few minutes later, the table in the corner was empty and there was no sign of either Lily or her stern-looking companion.

  Throughout the meal, a steady stream of waiters brought choice cuts of meat to the table. Every time Suzanne managed to clear her plate another metal spike would appear over her shoulder, held by a waiter wielding a long knife with which a succulent slice would be carved from the joint.

  ‘I don’t think I can eat much more,’ she whispered to WB, watching Charlie and Chibesa accepting yet more food.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, winking at her. ‘I know how to turn off the tap.’ And reaching to the centre of the table, he picked up a cotton reel from a basket hidden behind a vase of flowers. ‘Here, put this beside your plate, red end up.’ Suzanne realised the cotton reel was a simple traffic light system, painted red at one end and green at the other. With a little red marker next to her plate, the waiters knew, without having to ask, that this guest had eaten enough—at least for the time being.

  ‘Shouldn’t we tell the other two about the traffic lights?’ she asked WB but he grinned wickedly at her and shook his head.

  ‘It’s a lesson best learnt the hard way,’ he said, ‘and it’s funnier for the rest of us if we don’t. Someone did it to me on my first visit here—and everyone at the table thought it was hilarious.’

  Suzanne wasn’t sure about that, but decided to trust WB and go with the joke. It had been a hard two weeks for all of them, not least for her, and she wanted to relax for a little while, throw off the mantle of responsibility and just have some fun. There was time enough to start behaving sensibly again when they got back to Lusaka or she and Charlie returned to London.

  They finally relented and told Charlie about the cotton reel twenty minutes later when she was almost weeping at the fact that she couldn’t stop the waiters from giving her food. Chibesa had spotted the scheme a short while before and was smugly sitting with an empty plate while she was still struggling to finish what was on hers.

  ‘You can’t possibly waste any of that meat,’ he laughed at her. ‘Just think of all the little kids in this city who don’t have enough to eat. They would kill for a plate like that.’

  ‘And probably do, in some cases,’ said WB, a sobering thought that instantly extinguished the grins around the table.

  As they filed out of the restaurant, Suzanne glanced again at the scrubland and bush just the other side of the fence and silently saluted the animals that had given their lives so she and her friends could eat.

  Charlie and Chibesa continued their friendly banter in the car back to the hotel, he driving and she sitting in the passenger seat beside him. Suzanne was curious about the easy relationship that had built up so quickly between her sister and this young man from Zambia. Was it because he had no interest in Charlie as a potential partner and just wanted a friend? Was it because he completely understood her sexual preferences and did not judge her in any way—as so many young men and women had judged her, and hurt her, in the past? Or was it just that the extra rum punches had broken down both their barriers? Suzanne wasn’t sure which it was, but was just happy to see her sister relaxed and laughing.

  WB had gone back to the hotel in his own vehicle, so Suzanne was alone in the back of the car. Thoughts about her sister’s friendships and relationships led almost effortlessly to those of her own and she found herself thinking once more about Nathan Harawa. At that first meeting, he had seemed kind and sympathetic to her plight, and although that would have been a natural reaction from most people who saw her in the state she was in after her rescue, she had sensed a connection between them and would have welcomed the opportunity to get to know him better. Then she met Lily and found out that Annette wanted the young girl as Nathan’s wife; so Suzanne had stepped back, albeit regretfully. Nathan had seemed to withdraw from her too and she wondered if he regretted allowing her to recuperate in his house. She’d not heard from him since they left Ndola and she doubted if she would see him before she and Charlie flew home the following week. It was a pity, but maybe it was for the best; a long distance relationship was not something she was looking for. She had enough difficulty keeping up with all her friends back home, given the amount of travelling she was doing. Goodness only knows how she would have managed to keep any sort of friendship going across two continents and several oceans.

  When they got back to the hotel, Charlie and Chibesa headed off to the bar for one last nightcap—although Charlie promised faithfully it would be a rock shandy rather than a rum punch—but Suzanne was exhausted and said goodnight to the pair in the lobby.

  The elevator took a long time to arrive. Suzanne watched the numbers on the digital display as they slowly moved down from 9 to 0, stopping for several seconds on each floor in between. When it finally arrived, it was empty. She wondered if there was a party on floor 9 and all the guests were going back to their rooms. She couldn’t think of any other reason why an elevator should stop at every floor when there was no-one in it.

  Pressing the button for floor 8, she sagged back against the wall as the lift rose majestically. Her energy levels had hit rock bottom. Was it the stress of the past two weeks? Or an excess of food? Or another reason? Perhaps she was sickening for something.

  The corridor was deserted when she arrived at her floor and she walked swiftly to her door. Even though it was well-lit, she found it eerie and lonely up there on her own.

  As the door swung open, she was concerned to find the lights were on, but then she remembered she’d forgotten to put her usual ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice on the door handle before she left for the restaurant. So the maid would have been in to service the room. Sure enough, the bed was turned down, the lamps were all lit and the radio was playing softly in the background. As she threw her bag on the table and kicked off her shoes, she heard a slight noise in the bathroom.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ she called out, moving towards the phone as she did so. Her nerves were on edge and she didn’t want to risk being taken prisoner again. The bathroom door opened and a uniformed maid walked out, carrying some folded towels in her arms.

  ‘Sorry, madam, did I startle you?’ she asked. ‘I was just freshening up your supplies.’ She wasn’t one of the women Suzanne had seen before, but she knew it was unlikely she would recognise all the staff in such a large hotel. ‘Good night, madam,’ said the maid and let herself quietly out of the room, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.

  Suzanne ran into the bathroom, checked behind the shower curtain, returned to the bedroom, checked behind all the curtains and in the wardrobe. Then, finally convinced that she was safe and alone, she locked the door, put the safety chain across, dropped her clothes on the floor by the wardrobe and climbed into bed.

  It was only as she was dropping off to sleep a while later that a thought wound its way into her consciousness: if the maid really was just freshening up the room, where was her service trolley? The corridor had been completely empty when Suzanne came up to bed.

  24: KENYA; DEC 2004

  Suzanne sat bolt upright and hit the light switch above the bedsid
e table. Jumping out of bed, she prowled the room, looking desperately for signs of what the maid had really been doing. The bin under the desk was empty. But then, it would have been emptied when the room was properly serviced earlier in the day; and she couldn’t remember whether she’d thrown anything into it before she went out to the restaurant. In the bathroom, the towels were dry and carefully folded on the rail. And she’d had a shower earlier that evening, so certainly the towels had been changed. The end of the toilet roll had been folded into that annoying little triangle so beloved of hotel staff. She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror, shaking her head at the flushed and worried face she saw looking out at her.

  ‘You’ve got to calm down and stop seeing drama everywhere,’ she told herself.

  She went over to the wardrobe to check the safe was still locked. It was. But as she turned away and was about to close the door once more, something caught the corner of her eye. A flash of fluorescent pink in the dim light. She grabbed her suitcase and pulled it out of the bottom of the wardrobe and onto the bed. Suzanne had often been accused by her sister of being ‘a touch OCD’ but she saw it as merely being tidy. One of the habits she’d developed during her travels was keeping her dirty clothes tidily in her suitcase at the bottom of the wardrobe. She had no problem with the idea that hotel staff would be making her bed, cleaning the shower or the loo, or even seeing how many packets of crisps or nuts she’d eaten from the mini bar. But she did not want them going through her dirty clothes. So although, as now, she often dropped them untidily on the floor before she climbed into bed, she always made a point of folding and stowing them in her case before she left for work the next morning. She also found it made packing at the end of the trip much easier as well. So she was disturbed to see the sleeve of a blouse she’d worn earlier in the week sticking out from the side of the case. Opening the lid with trembling hands, she found to her disgust that someone had indeed been going through her clothes. They were rumpled and stuffed in any old how, as though someone had tipped them out on to the bed and then shoved them back in without taking care to replace them as they’d originally been packed. So someone had definitely been going through her things—and they didn’t seem particularly worried if that fact was found out. ‘Either an amateur or a very confident professional without any fear of discovery,’ she said out loud.