In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

the fruit. “You want to know about me? Okay. I made good money mining. Did you know that? Not really mining, but stealing from diamond mines. I like animals,” he said, “which is what gave me the idea for it.” He sucked his lower lip and launched into his story. “I met a black boy on the gravel ramp. He sees some big diamonds coming through. Big as this.” Botha indicated the end of his thumb. “So, I asked him, what do the gates look like? The building? How many guards? Where do they stand? Does he know any of the guards? Tell me the schedules . . . what . . . what . . . what . . .

“The boy says it’s wrapped tight. They x-ray coming out and they metal-detect both ways. He tells me he can’t even get out a window. They’re little windows in the hallway, like on a ship, too small to climb out. I been on some big yachts. Big. Adnan Khashoggi hunted with me on the Kimber, did you know that?”

“Didn’t know that,” Klay said and tapped his pen. His notebook was open in front of him. At the top of the page he’d written Botha’s name, the date, and the interview location. The page was blank.

“That’s right, counselor. Russians. Putin. Some big Americans. Names you would know.”

“Like who?”

Botha studied Klay. “Yeah, but I was telling a story. I told the boy, open one of the hallway windows. Not open it, just unlatch it. That’s all he had to do.” Botha began peeling his orange. He did it slowly, chipping off pieces while he talked. “I’m telling you so you know how my mind works.”

Klay gestured with his hands. “Please.”

Botha continued. He said he drove out to the young mineworker’s house with some men and some lumber and had them build a pigeon coop behind the mineworker’s house. Then he bought a flock of homing pigeons.

“You’re a pigeon racer now,” he told the young man. He pointed to the pigeon trainer he’d brought. “He’s going to be living with you.” Botha eyed Klay. “You ever raised pigeons? Birds only fly so far at a time and come back, like eight kilometers a week. We didn’t want any mishaps, so we took our time.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “Six months later, the birds were ready. I gave the boy a four-inch section of PVC pipe, sealed on one end, and told him to put a bird in the pipe and take it to work in his lunch pail.

“Pigeon pipe goes through the metal detector, little cloth sack on his foot, diamond or two in the sack, out the little window. Skips the X-ray.” He popped an orange slice into his mouth. “Millions, I made that way.” Botha picked his nose. “They arrested me on sable that time, but you probably read about it. We moved them in bakkies kitted out like farm trucks.” He raised a hand over his head. “Stacked with vegetables up to the sky. Secret compartment inside. Moved them from red zone to green zone. All we had to do. Millions on that one, too.”

“What’s red zone to green zone?” Klay asked.

“Hoof and mouth,” he said. “Sable in the green zone, certified. Worth five or eight times red zone sable. Just had to cross that border. Do you see what I’m saying to you?”

“Borders don’t matter to you.”

“Ach, that’s one way to tell it. Another is, borders are where the money is. You should remember that.”

“Thanks for the lesson. How ’bout if we talk about Kenya.”

“Kenya?”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit, Botha.”

“You don’t have time?” Botha sat back and smiled. “You want, you can borrow some of mine.” He broke off a large section of orange and took his time chewing it.

“I’m talking about your elephant poachers. The two men you murdered.”

“Hey!” Botha called out. Klay heard a magazine crackle. Botha reached into his pocket and slapped a few bills down on the table. “Jacob, my friend, why don’t you go get yourself a Coke?”

Jacob took the money and left.

“So, counselor, you have something you want to say to me?”

Botha wasn’t wearing handcuffs. He was shorter than Klay, compact.

“Tell me about your shooter.”

Botha sat back in his chair and grinned. “I told you before. Elephants are property. What people do with them is their business.”

Klay thought of Bernard. Klay might be built bigger than Botha, but Botha was meaner—he could see that. There was no question, no uncertainty in his dark eyes. Botha was a killer.

Botha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking too much, counselor,” he warned. “You want to get emotional? You should be thinking about that little poes you got right here. Advocate Hungry Khoza. That skirt is property, too. How long you been fucking the very special prosecutor?”

Klay came out of his chair, his fist in the air. Suddenly he was down, his face slammed into the tabletop, Botha leaning all his weight on Klay’s locked arm. Botha put his mouth against Klay’s ear. “Know your target, Tom. Didn’t they teach you that in Assessments?”

“Assessments” was a CIA term.

“Take your fucking hands off me.” Klay rose from the table, lifting Botha off the ground with him. His chair crashed to the floor and the office door opened. Jacob entered with his nightstick drawn. Botha stepped away from Klay. He raised a hand and Jacob paused. Botha tilted his head toward the door, and Jacob backed out of the office and closed the door behind him.

Klay wiped blood from his nose and lip.

“You were the gun,” Botha said calmly, retaking his seat. “Not me, counselor.”

Klay spat. Botha wiped Klay’s blood and spit off his cheek with the back of his hand.

“I was the gun? The fuck are you talking about?” Klay said.

Botha looked at Klay’s untouched orange. “I have a client. American. Very powerful guy. I been to the States many times. Many, many times. Did you know that? Miami. Dallas. Vegas. This guy’s got a big place in Zim, bigger than the King Ranch. Beautiful fucking place.