[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Read online

  ‘I am sorry to barge in like this, Sister. These supplies are for you. I will send some of my men for more, whatever they can find they will bring back for you. Meanwhile, I must find the people that did this and prevent it from happening again.’

  She nodded, hesitantly. ‘I know how you feel. I used to cry. Every day I used to cry. But I no longer have any tears left. Now I pray instead.’

  ‘Does prayer work, sister?’

  She nodded. ‘You are here.’

  She took his hand and stared deeply into his eyes. And to him that small contact felt as though he had been branded by Aphrodite. In a world of harshness and misery her unblemished soul stood out like a beacon of light. A light to which Garrett felt irresistibly drawn.

  ‘My name is Garrett.’

  ‘Manon. Sister Manon Dubois.’

  They sat together for a while. Not speaking, their hands clasped firmly together like shipwreck victims holding onto a lifeline.

  Abruptly Garrett stood up. ‘I swear to you, sister. I will find these men that did this to the children and I will punish them.’

  She watched him walk away, his green eyes ablaze with purpose, beckoning to his troops as he did so. And she slowly let her breath out and wondered at the strength of her feeling. Her heart was racing, her legs felt weak and when she closed her eyes she could still see him looking at her with his gaze of green fire.

  Garrett left corporal Ron Taylor, an older ex-Rhodesian fireforce soldier, in charge of guarding the mission with four riflemen. He took with him two South African ex-parabats, huge solid men, both with well-balanced personalities in that they had an equally large chip on each shoulder. As well as them there was his sergeant, a solid noncom and a good friend who went by the name of ‘The Dentist’ due to the horrendous state of his teeth, courtesy of a lifetime of neglect and self-professed dental-cowardice. Three more riflemen made up the rest of the team.

  It took Garrett just over two weeks to track down the perpetrators and exact what he considered to be appropriate retribution. And when Garrett and his men arrived back at the mission their infamy had spread before them. People averted their eyes when the warriors walked past and fear hung around them like a miasma. Garrett was puzzled. Where he had expected thanks he received apprehension. Instead of releasing the innocents from the dread of mutilation his actions had replaced it with something else entirely. He had replaced fear with dread. For now, instead of mere revolutionaries the villagers had Popobawa. The devil himself walked amongst them. The stealer of souls. The eater of dreams.

  Only Manon seemed to understand why he had done it. Although she did not condone what he had done. He had spent an evening trying to justify himself to her. He had stopped the atrocities, he told her. But at what price, she had countered. It was worth it at any price, he said. Then she had asked him the one question that he had been avoiding. The one question that he refused to ask himself. She had asked him if he had enjoyed it.

  And because he would not lie to her he told her the truth. When he answered she recoiled as if he had struck her.

  He left the next morning. He took the Jeep to Freetown and resigned his commission. He had not worked out his contract so he received no bonus pay. Simply a one way ticket to a country of his choice. He chose to return to Scotland, having lived there once before. He flew to Heathrow via Jan Smuts airport in Johannesburg, South Africa.

  In the five years since Garrett had last been there, the airport had changed completely. Not only had it experienced a name change from Jan Smuts to Oliver Tambo it had also tripled in size. As he only had carry on luggage he was quickly through customs and he followed the signs to the Hertz counter. He waited in a short queue and then chose a Jeep Cherokee, figuring that it had enough grunt and could perform off road if it had to. Also, it was fitted with a satnav which he would need as it had been a very long time since he had last been in Johannesburg or Joburg, as the locals called it. There was a slight problem when it transpired that he didn’t have a credit card and wanted to do the deal in cash. However this minor issue went away after he pushed an extra handful of one hundred Rand notes across the counter. The extra Rands disappeared as if by magic to be replaced with a key and a smile. He got lost once on the way to the car pick up area because he had stopped at an MTM kiosk to rent a cell phone. After retracing his steps he got back on track and found the Jeep soon after. He bleeped it open, threw his bag onto the back seat and slid in. The interior smelt overpoweringly of bubblegum and hot leather, so the first thing he did was turn on the power and roll the windows down. Secondly he switched on the satnav and typed in the address that he had looked up at Heathrow, waited for the system to initialize and pulled out into the traffic.

  As he drove from the airport, through Johannesburg he was amazed at how the city had fallen into ruin. Particularly Hillbrow, an inner city area that was the place to be seen back in the late seventies. There used to be nightclubs, restaurants and five star hotels. He cruised past the former five star Chelsea Hotel. There were old mattresses on the pavement outside and long streaks of filth ran down each window opening.

  Garrett wondered how the same government that could create something as amazing as the Oliver Tambo airport with its world-class subway system could also allow a ghetto like this to exist. And then he thought of cities like Detroit and New York and the devastation that still remained after hurricane Katrina and he wondered no more. He drove through the leafy suburbs of Houghton and marveled at the massive mansions there. He remembered ‘The Dentist’, his sergeant in Sierra Leone, had once told him that Joburg was the most treed city in the world and, driving through it, he could believe it. When you looked down from the highway across the burbs the trees were so thick as to mask the houses amongst them. Eventually the satnav guided him to his destination. The Sunlight Childrens’ Home in the Honeydew area.

  It wasn’t at all what he expected. The home was in the middle of an industrial area and was converted from an old factory, as was evident by the square aluminum windows and sheet metal roofing. He pulled into one of the designated parking bays and climbed out, locking the Jeep behind him.

  There was an armed guard lounging in a plastic chair outside the double door entrance to what was probably the lobby or reception area. He wore a faded green uniform and carried a Norinco Hawk, a badly made Chinese copy of the Remington 870 12 gauge pump action shotgun. The bluing was already worn and the barrel had a light patina of rust. Garrett would have bet all that he owned that the weapon had never been cleaned. But the guard himself was a pleasure. He jumped out of his seat and snapped to attention, giving Garrett a whippy, over the top salute accompanied with a wide grin. ‘Welcome to the Sunlight Childrens’ Home, sir. How may I help you?’

  Garrett smiled back but abstained from saluting. ‘Hello. I’ve come to see sister Manon.’

  ‘Straight through both doors and up the stairs to your left, sir.’

  Garrett nodded his thanks and followed the guard’s instructions. The small entrance hall was furnished with a couple of cheap office chairs, one each side of a low fake-wood table. There was a small pile of old magazines on the table as well as a stack of brochures with the home’s logo on them. The floor was bare polished concrete. He went through the area and up the stairs, pausing at the top to glance out of a window that looked down on what used to be the factory’s main production space. It had been divided into a central corridor and two large dormitories. Because the factory roof was so high the dormitory walls served only as partitions and were not floor to ceiling structures. There was a fully covered area at the end of the corridor that he took to be the bathrooms. He glanced up at the un-insulated roof. It was obvious that the place would be freezing in winter and an oven in summer. But better an un-insulated roof than none at all, mused Garrett as he turned and entered the passage that led off the landing. He was faced with a long corridor with seven or so doors running down the one side and one at the end. Not knowing what else to do he decided to simply call.
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br />   ‘Manon!’

  The door at the end of the corridor opened. She walked towards him, hesitantly at first and then, over the last few meters, at a sprint. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled herself hard up against him. Garrett had forgotten how tiny she was, at five foot two she was fully a foot shorter than him and she must have weighed in at much less than half his two hundred and twenty pounds. She smelled of soap and flowers and something else. And he breathed in as deeply as he dared, savoring her fragrance. Reveling in the feel of her.

  ‘You came.’ She whispered up at him.

  He nodded. ‘I am here for you.’

  Chapter 2

  The marble table in the corner of the room served as a bar. Bottles of Armand de Brignac Champagne stood in silver ice buckets. The golden contents of the Glenmorangie Signet single malt refracted bullion bars of light across the room and the deep cut crystal glasses painted orgiastic rainbows of color onto the pale cream tabletop. There were no waiters. No wine stewards and no hostesses. Even the armed guards were stationed outside the room. The doors were locked.

  A Cambridge audio system discreetly filled any potential uncomfortable pauses with Classical music and the air slowly took on a blue-gray tinge from the exhaled cigar smoke. There were seven males, all middle to later middle age. All seemingly cast from the same mould with small differences. Like cabbage patch dolls. Average height, running to fat, their pear shaped bodies concealed well behind hand tailored English suits. A thickset Nigerian, wearing a traditional Agbada, stood out from the rest. The round pink faces contrasting with his burnished defined features, his arrogant walk. His power. All showed signs of manicures and facials.

  As well as the Nigerian, another African man stood out in his difference. Tall and graceful. Dressed in a maroon velvet jacket. Obviously the host. From their accents it was easy to tell that the Nigerian was the only foreigner. It was also fairly obvious that he was here as an observing guest. As opposed to a client. The rest spoke with the flat vowels and abrupt sentences of native South Africans. The host had purposely kept foreigners from the meetings. They were an unknown ingredient. He could exert little pressure on those who lived and traded outside of his borders. And he was a man who thrived on exerting pressure. The host had met all of them at least three times before and, although he knew every small detail of their lives from sexual proclivities to approximate bank balances, he referred to them by number only. Mr. Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen. The pretence that they were dealing under the protection of anonymity made them feel more at ease. Like revelers at a masked ball. Clandestine, aloof. Above persecution. He allowed them their small fantasy.

  The atmosphere was tense. But not in a negative way. Perhaps apprehensive would describe it better. The host clapped his hands and showed the guests to a row of leather wingbacks that faced the one wood paneled wall, standing back perhaps ten feet from the paneling. At the touch of a remote the music stopped, lights dimmed and a large screen descended silently from the ceiling. The room immediately turned into a private cinema. A frisson of excitement rippled through the guests. Race horses in the stalls. Sprinters at the blocks. Bulldogs and prime rib.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ greeted the host. ‘The auction will take place as before. We have a total of thirteen objects d’art to bid on.’ There was a titter of amusement at this small witticism. ‘As always, we will show a minute long preview after which the bidding will start. Please remember, gentlemen, that you are bidding on the worldwide rights. All bids are final and binding and will be paid via bank transfer directly after the end of tonight’s trading.’ A finger pressed a remote control button and the DVD projector whirred into life.

  Bidding started at forty thousand dollars and ratcheted up in tranches of ten thousand until it finally stalled at eighty thousand. The next eleven bids reached similar prices, one as high as one hundred and ten, one as low as seventy. A total of a little over one million one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

  Before he started the thirteenth viewing the host busied himself refilling drinks and cutting fresh cigars. Once again lights were lowered. Silk clad rumps were sat upon leather. The host rubbed his hands together. ‘Gentlemen. I have saved this one until last. I am sure that you will all agree, the wait will have been worth it. This, my friends, is truly a masterpiece,’

  Lights. Sound….

  The film lasted twenty-seven minutes and was shown in its entirety. And at the end the room stank of sweat and lust and something else. The stench of Gomorrah.

  Bidding started at five hundred thousand and the competition lasted perhaps forty seconds before number Fourteen closed the bids, topping out at nine hundred and twenty thousand. The bidders clapped politely. Congratulations were given. Toasts were made.

  And somewhere, not that far away, the Beast attacked the bars of its cage and howled to get out.

  ***

  The host showed the last of his clients to the door, bar the Nigerian whom he asked to stay. A hand on his shoulder. He poured them each a generous measure of single malt, handed one over. A toast. Sip. Neither spoke for a while as they savored the smoke and peat and heather of the superb Scottish nectar.

  The Nigerian, Valentine Tsogo, lived in Hillbrow. He owned the top three floors of a thirty-story apartment block; seven bedrooms, two kitchens, a servant’s wing and a home cinema were merely some of the more notable aspects of the fantastically over-the-top residence. He also owned the rest of the block. The original service elevator had been converted into Valentine’s private car and took him directly from the underground parking to his double-vaulted entrance hall.

  Five years ago Valentine had moved from Lagos with his entire extended family of around thirty people. He had arrived in the country with lots of capital in the form of gold and diamonds but he had very little in the way of local connections. The move had not been through choice but rather through his abortive attempt to oust one of the major crime families in Nigeria. His failure had cost him three family members and more than four million dollars in lost cash. It had also cost him the right to continue living in the country of his birth.

  But since Valentine had arrived he and his family had done very well. Within months they had set up an office specializing in emailing out millions of different versions of the Nigerian 419 scam letter. This gist of which went;

  Dear Respected One,

  GREETINGS,

  Permit me to inform you of my desire of going into business relationship with you. I got your contact from the International web site directory. I prayed over it and selected your name among other names due to it's esteeming nature and the recommendations given to me as a reputable and trust worthy person I can do business with and by the recommendations I must not hesitate to confide in you for this simple and sincere business.

  I am Wumi Abdul; the only Daughter of late Mr and Mrs George Abdul. My father was a very wealthy cocoa merchant in Abidjan, the economic capital of Ivory Coast before he was poisoned to death by his business associates on one of their outing to discus on a business deal. When my mother died on the 21st October 1984, my father took me and my younger brother HASSAN special because we are motherless. Before the death of my father on 30th June 2002 in a private hospital here in Abidjan. He secretly called me on his bedside and told me that he has a sum of $12.500.000 (Twelve Million, five hundred thousand dollars) left in a suspense account in a local Bank here in Abidjan, that he used my name as his first Daughter for the next of kin in deposit of the fund.

  He also explained to me that it was because of this wealth and some huge amount of money his business associates supposed to balance his from the deal they had that he was poisoned by his business associates, that I should seek for a God fearing foreign partner in a country of my choice where I will transfer this money and use it for investment purpose, (such as real estate management). Unfortunately we have come upon a dire problem. Due to the corruption currently being experienced in our country we need a small
sum of money to bribe the bank official to release the money. This sum would be $20 000 which must be transferred via Western Union to me. As well as this we would need the following.

  1) To provide a Bank account where the $12 500 000 would be transferred to.

  2) To serve as the guardian of this since I am a girl of 17 years.

  Moreover Sir, we are willing to offer you 15% of the sum as compensation for effort input after the successful transfer of this fund to your designate account overseas. please feel free to contact ,me via this email address [email protected]

  Anticipating to hear from you soon.

  Thanks and God Bless.

  Miss Wumi Abdul

  There were a few variations on the theme but the basic script was the same. The bad grammar and punctuation were deliberate; after all, Valentine had graduated with a second-class degree in philosophy from Oxford and spoke English better than most English people. But the clunky wording gave the recipient a feeling of superiority. And that, in turn, led the mark to believe that they were the sophisticated party in the transaction.

  The actual mechanics of the scheme were very basic. Most people are not aware of the fact that for a mere five hundred US Dollars one can purchase a list of fifty million valid email addresses from an IT company based in Calcutta, India. Then one blasted off the emails via a Chinese based bullet-proof hosting center that stopped your ISP from knowing that you were sending out thousands of emails every few seconds.