Frank Schätzing - Limit

The person holding the camera said something incomprehensible. The blond man glanced over and grinned.

‘Of course,’ he said in Spanish. ‘Praise the President.’

They both laughed.

The picture changed. The same man was shown sitting at a long table in the company of men in uniform, this time dressed in a khaki shirt and light jacket, and without sunglasses. The camera zoomed in on him. His eyebrows and lashes were as pale as the hair on his head, his eyes watery blue, one of them with a fixed gaze, possibly a glass eye. Then the camera panned out and captured the table in its entirety. Two Chinese men in suits and ties were presenting some charts. The target audience of their report seemed to be a brawny figure at the head of the table, bald, bull-necked and as black as polished ebony. He was wearing plain overalls. The uniforms of the other participants, who were also black, seemed more formal, dark with red-gold epaulettes and all kinds of decorations, but the bullish one was clearly the nucleus of the whole meeting, while the blond seemed to be taking on the role of spectator.

This conversation was taking place in Spanish too. The Chinese spokesman was fluent, but had an appalling accent. The topic of discussion was clearly the building of a gas to liquid plant, which was eliciting approving nods from the bullish man. The Chinese man asked his colleague for some files, with a light Beijing accent.

The camera zoomed in on the blond man again. He was making notes and following the presentation attentively.

Lines and whirling shapes suddenly flashed across the multimedia wall. Someone was trying to focus the picture. A street came into view, an inner-city landscape, full of cars. Someone was coming out of a glass building on the other side of the street, where holographic advertisement films were hovering over the façade like ghosts. The camera zoomed in on the person, going hazy many times in the process, then captured the head and upper body. Tall, clean-shaven and with his hair dyed dark, at first glance the blond was hardly recognisable. He looked around then walked off down the street. The camera flickered again, then came back into focus to show him sitting in the sun, flicking through a magazine. Now and then he sipped at a cup, then he looked up and the film ended abruptly.

‘That’s all there is,’ said Jericho.

For a while, they were all silent. Then Yoyo said:

‘It’s to do with Chinese interests in Africa, right? I mean, that conference, it was obvious.’

‘Could be. Did any of them look familiar to you?’

Yoyo hesitated. ‘I’ve seen the bull-necked guy before.’

‘And the Chinese men?’

‘They look like corporate types. What was it about again? Gas to liquid plants? Oil managers, I’d say. Sinopec or Petrochina.’

‘But you don’t know them?’

‘No.’

‘Any other thoughts, anyone?’

He looked around. Tu seemed to want to say something, but shook his head.

‘Okay. I haven’t had a chance to analyse the film yet, but I can tell you a few things. In my opinion the recordings are purely and simply about the blond guy. Twice we see him in an African country, where he seems to hold a public position, then later, with his appearance changed, in a city somewhere in the world. He’s dyed his hair darker and shaved off the moustache. Conclusions?’

‘Two,’ said Yoyo. ‘Either he’s on a secret mission, or he had to go underground.’

‘Very good. So let’s ask ourselves—’

‘Owen.’ Tu gave him a lenient smile. ‘Could you not come straight to the point?’

‘Sorry.’ Jericho shrugged apologetically. ‘So, I instructed Diane to scour the internet in search of the man, and she found him.’ He added a dramatic pause, not caring whether Tu liked it or not. ‘Our friend’s name is Jan Kees Vogelaar.’

Yoyo stared at him. ‘There’s a Jan in the text fragment!’

‘Exactly. So we’ve got two men who are connected with the incidents of the last few days. One of them being Andre Donner, about whom all we know is that he’s running an African restaurant in Berlin, but nonetheless. And Jan Kees Vogelaar, top mercenary and personal security advisor to a certain Juan Alfonso Nguema Mayé, if that rings any bells with any of you.’

‘Mayé,’ echoed Tu. ‘Wait, where have I—’

‘In the news. From 2017 to 2024 Juan Mayé was the president and sole dictator of Equatorial Guinea.’ Jericho paused. ‘Until he was violently removed from office.’

‘That’s right,’ murmured Tu. ‘Look! We may have our coup.’

‘Possibly. So let’s assume it’s not about plans to overthrow the Communist Party after all, nor some other crazy conspiracy story. That means the coup being discussed in the text fragment would have taken place a long time ago. Last July, to be precise. And with the involvement of the Chinese government no less!’

Chen raised his hand. ‘Where is Equatorial Guinea anyway?’

‘In West Africa,’ Yoyo explained. ‘A horrid little coastal state with a hell of a lot of oil. And the guy with the bull-neck—’

‘—is Mayé,’ confirmed Jericho. ‘Or rather, was . His ambitions to stay in power didn’t do him any good. They blew him and his whole clique up. No one survived. It was all over the news in 2024.’

‘I remember. We were planning to do some research about Equatorial Guinea back then. When we were still interested in foreign politics.’

‘Why aren’t you now?’

Yoyo shrugged. ‘What else can you do when the rubbish is piling up in front of your own door? You walk through the streets and see the migrant workers sleeping on the building sites the way they always have, the same place where they fuck, breed and kick the bucket. You see the illegal immigrants without papers, without work permits, without health insurance. The filth in Quyu. The queues in front of the appeal offices, the government-hired thugs who turn up at night and beat them black and blue until they’ve forgotten what they wanted to complain about. And all the while Reporters Without Borders announces that freedom of opinion has demonstrably improved in China. I know it sounds cynical, but after a while the problems of exploited Africans don’t even register on your radar.’

Chen lowered his gaze, painfully moved.

‘Let’s stick with Vogelaar for now,’ decided Tu. ‘What else can you tell us about him?’

Jericho projected a chart onto the wall. ‘I’ve investigated him as much as I could. Born in South Africa in 1962 as the son of a Dutch immigrant, he did military service, studied at the military academy, and then in 1983, aged twenty-one, he signed up as an NCO with the notorious Koevoet.’

‘I’ve never heard of them,’ said Yoyo.

‘Koevoet was a paramilitary unit of the South African police formed to combat SWAPO, a guerrilla troop fighting for the independence of South-West Africa, now Namibia. Back then, the South African Union refused to retreat from the area despite a UN resolution, and instead built up Koevoet, which, by the way, is the Dutch word for crowbar. Quite a rough bunch. Predominantly native tribal warriors and trackers. Exclusively white officers. They hunted down the SWAPO rebels in armoured cars and killed many thousands of people. They were said to have tortured and raped too. Vogelaar even became an officer, but by the end of the eighties the group had come to an end and was disbanded.’

‘How do you know all that?’ asked Tu in amazement.

‘I looked it up. I just wanted to know who we’re dealing with here. And it’s very interesting by the way. Koevoet is one of the causes of the South African mercenary problem: at any rate, the troop included three thousand men who found themselves unemployed after the end of apartheid. Most of them, including Vogelaar, found jobs with private mercenary firms. After the suppression of Koevoet at the end of the eighties, he got into the arms trade, working as a military advisor in conflict areas. Then, in 1995, he went to Executive Outcomes, a privately run security company and meeting place for a large proportion of the former military elite. By the time Vogelaar joined, the outfit was already playing a leading role in the worldwide mercenary trade, after initially being content with infiltrating the ANC. By the mid-nineties, Executive Outcomes had built up perfect connections. A network of military service companies, oil and mining firms: one which headed lucrative contract wars and was very happy to profit from the petroleum industry. They ended the civil war in Somalia in the interest of American oil companies, and in Sierra Leone they recaptured diamond mines which had fallen into the hands of the rebels. Vogelaar built up excellent contacts there. Four years later he transferred to Outcomes’ offshoot Sandline International, but it drew unwanted attention through bodged operations and ended up abandoning all activities in 2004. He eventually founded Mamba, his own security company, which operated predominantly in Nigeria and Kenya. And Kenya is where we lose all trace of him, sometime during the unrest after the 2007 elections.’ Jericho looked at them apologetically. ‘Or, let’s say that’s where I lose trace of him. In any case, he appears again in 2017, at Mayé’s side, whose security apparatus he led from then on.’