Killer Country Read Online Free Page A

two, three times.’
    ‘Sure.’ Mace nodded. ‘After Christa got shot. After that bastard pulled that kidnap stunt. After Isabella got killed. I know, I said enough each time. But really, hey, how could we do it really? I needed the bucks. Need them still. Without the money we’re in the dwang, Oumou and me.’ Mace reached for his beer. ‘What I’m saying is, with the court case, I’m stuffed. My family’s stuffed.’
    They drank in silence. Mace thinking, he did a runner where in the world would they live? Malitia? Go back to Oumou’s desert village where they’d met. Medieval Tuaregs and goats. Nothing but Sahara sand, hazed distant mountains. He’d go mad. Nothing to do. No one to talk to. No water, nowhere to swim. And Christa was a city girl. No ways she’d cope. The trouble was Pylon was right. Pylon wasn’t going anywhere. This was his life. He had to keep the business until something happened he could wash in the offshore funds. Bit by bit so that no one noticed.
    Mace said, ‘What about Obed Chocho? He’s going to snatch the west coast from you?’
    ‘Major crap,’ said Pylon. ‘A headache like you can’t believe. I have to admit even from prison the man pulls a network. The man who could stuff this up for us. Snatch this deal out of our hands.’ Mace’s cellphone rang and he dug it from his pants pocket, connected.
    A voice said in his ear, ‘Is that Mr Mace Bishop?’
    Mace getting that heavy sensation in his chest. The reason he knew he wanted out. He said, ‘Who’s this?’ – watching Pylon launch off the couch, Pylon mouthing at him, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
    Mace held up a hand, wait. Pylon shook his head, drew a finger across his throat. Said, ‘Treasure.’
    Mace waved him off, smiling, heard the voice say, ‘My name is Telman Visser, Mr Bishop. Judge Telman Visser.’
    Didn’t mean zilch from zucchini to Mace. No Afrikaans in the accent. Cape Town private school tones, quiet, firm. Visser with the ‘r’ sounded not the usual heavy ‘a’, Vissa. Mace pictured Bishop’s Court: long ranch-style house, tall hedges around it, the judge standing on his lawn gazing up at the mountain. Bird-twitter in the background. The judge not wanting to be overheard by anyone. Man of about any age between late forties and sixties, he reckoned, going by the voice.
    Mace said, ‘That so.’ Waited.
    Until the judge on the other end said, ‘Mr Bishop are you there?’
    ‘I am,’ said Mace. And waited. Mace shrugged. Hearing hadedas squawking loudly, flying right over the judge’s head probably.
    The judge saying, ‘Mr Bishop could we meet? Perhaps at the Michael Stevenson Art Gallery. You know it? In Green Point.’
    Mace said, ‘There’s not many people have this number.’
    ‘Ah.’ The hadedas distant, the judge’s voice taking on a chuckle. ‘Of course. My apologies. A New York colleague referred me to you. Gave me your cellular number. He and his wife were out here for a “surgical safari”, I believe he termed it. Last November. Judge and Mrs Steinhauer. He was most impressed with your security service. Also someone locally who preferred to remain anonymous.’
    ‘Intriguing,’ said Mace. ‘I remember Judge Steinhauer’ – picturing the silver-haired judge, a Johnny Cash fan plugged into an iPod for most part of any day. His wife over for a face-liftand a boob job. Not that she needed either at forty-five – ten, fifteen years younger than the judge.
    ‘I have a problem, Mr Bishop. For this I need security. Reliable security.’
    ‘That’s what we do,’ said Mace, wishing he didn’t have to say it. Standing, moving to the window. The sun gone from the face of Table Mountain, the shadow giving it a looming presence.
    ‘Not on the phone, if you don’t mind. I prefer dealing with people face to face,’ The judge saying. ‘Tomorrow morning, perhaps. About ten-thirty, eleven?’ A tone of voice that wasn’t used to accommodating others.
    Mace thinking, Shit. So