“Excellent,” Kotto said. “I’ll notify the buyers at once.”
Webster hung up the phone, stunned. The dollar amount that Kotto had quoted was beyond Webster’s wildest dreams. Actually, in the very beginning, the concept of cash had never even entered his thoughts. He wanted to establish the Plantation for revenge, not money. He planned to smuggle people onto his island and treat them the way his ancestors had been treated. In his mind it would teach white people about the horrors of slavery while striking a blow for the black culture. Of course, since he’d never been an athletic person, he knew he needed help to make his plan a reality. He could control the bureaucracy by himself, but he needed someone to handle the brutality, someone who had been trained for it. But who?
While looking for assistance, Webster solicited the advice of Harris Jackson, his ex-roommate from college. Jackson wasn’t very supportive of the idea at the time-this was before his legal problems had occurred-but he suggested the name of a client who might be willing to help. And it was the perfect recommendation.
Until that point, Octavian Holmes had made a good living as a mercenary, offering his military expertise to the highest foreign bidder, but he’d reached the point in his life where he was looking for a change of pace-guerrilla warfare in South America and jungle tactics in Africa were quickly losing their appeal. He was thinking about running a training camp for militia types or opening his own shooting range, but he’d never gotten around to it.
When Webster first called, Holmes was immediately intrigued with the idea. The concept of slavery was one that had always fascinated him, and the chance to actually participate in it was too great to pass up. Unfortunately for Webster, Holmes wasn’t willing to do it for free. To coordinate something as large as the Plantation, Holmes wanted to be compensated in an appropriate fashion. But Webster didn’t have that type of cash. He was willing to pay what he could, but it simply wasn’t enough to please a professional soldier like Holmes. So, before it even got started, the Plantation had hit a snag, a problem that threatened its existence.
But not to worry. Holmes came up with a logical solution that saved the day. Why not make money while getting revenge? That way, they could get profits and vengeance at the same time.
It sounded good to Webster, but he wasn’t quite sure how it would work.
Holmes quickly clued him in. He told Webster about an African who had hired him for some military exercises in Nigeria. The man’s name was Hannibal Kotto, and he was reputed to be as powerful as he was wealthy. Holmes claimed that Kotto was loved and respected throughout Africa despite his tendency to operate outside the letter of the law. In fact, while Holmes was in Lagos, he had heard rumors of a white slavery ring that Kotto was attempting to start.
The concept intrigued Webster. If the rumors were true, then he would be able to take his slavery idea to a whole new level. Instead of just kidnapping and torturing white folks for revenge, he could actually sell them to the motherland for money. It would be the original slave trade, but in reverse: whites going to a black land instead of blacks going to a white one.
After checking with his sources, Holmes discovered that the rumors about Kotto were true. In fact, he had already laid the foundation for the business. Kotto and Edwin Drake, an Englishman who lived in Johannesburg, had cultivated a long list of African entrepreneurs who were interested in buying white-skinned slaves. Even though Africans could hire black servants at a minimal price, the idea of having a white slave was too compelling to pass up. To them, a white slave would be a status symbol, like owning a Mercedes or a Ferrari.
If I’m rich, I can hire a servant, but if I’m super rich, I can buy a white one.
On top of that, many men planned on using white women as concubines, fair-skinned mistresses to have at their disposal.
Still, the concept wasn’t perfect.
After several failed experiments, Kotto and Drake realized it was difficult to find a reliable supplier of whites. Sure, the two men wanted to make money off of the slave trade, but neither of them wanted to get his hands dirty. They wanted someone else to do the hard stuff. Furthermore, even though there were thousands of white people scattered across Africa, neither man wanted to make enemies on the African continent. Kotto said it would be like defecating in his own backyard. In his mind, if they were going to get white people, they were going to have to smuggle them in from places where the two men had few ties: Australia, Europe, and North America.
And that’s when the Plantation organizers stepped in and offered their services.
They were the suppliers. Kotto and Drake were the distributors.
A partnership was forged.
CHAPTER 40
IF
there’d been food in his stomach, Payne was confident that he would’ve vomited; the strong stench of urine that engulfed him pretty much guaranteed that. But as it was, Payne was only forced to deal with dehydration, severe hunger pains, and intermittent episodes of dry heaves.
“Now I know what Gandhi must’ve felt like,” he croaked, his throat burning from the act of speaking. Yet it didn’t matter to Payne. He would continue to speak all night if he had to. It was the best way to stay in touch with reality. “Gandhi probably didn’t smell like piss, though.”
Payne leaned his head against the box, a position he had been in all day, when his right hamstring started to cramp again. He hastily tried stretching, doing anything to prevent the muscle contractions from striking, but the shackles on the floor made it impossible to move. He would be forced to ride out the wave of agony until the spasm passed.
As Payne suffered, Bennie Blount peered into the hole of the Devil’s Box. “You ain’t got enough
possium
in your body. That’s why you crampin’ like that.”
The voice stunned him, yet Payne quickly replied. “No,” he groaned. “I’m cramping like this because I’m locked in a Rubik’s Cube in the middle of a heat wave, not because I didn’t eat enough bananas.”
“I don’t know. I still think it’s the
possium
.”
Payne continued fighting through his cramp, in no mood to discuss the merits of potassium. “Nothing personal, but I have a policy about talking to traitors.”
Blount turned on a small flashlight and placed it under his chin. He wanted Payne to see his face as he talked. “I sorry about that, Mr. Payne, but I didn’t have no choice. I wasn’t allowed off the island unless I agreed to do it, and I really wanted to see the fireworks. . . . As it be, I didn’t even get to see ’em.”
Payne shook his head in pity. Blount was just a helpless pawn in this, caught up in something that he didn’t know how to control or escape from. And even though Blount worked for the Plantation, Payne could tell he wasn’t as sadistic as the others.
“Hey, Bennie, I don’t want to get you into trouble, but I was hoping you could give me a hand.”
“You mean free ya? They’d never trust me with the key. I’d probably lose it.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need a key. There are other things you could do for me.”
Blount lowered his face to the top of the box. “Like what?”
“Some food and drink would be nice.”
Blount frowned, then suddenly stood from his perch.
Payne could hear the servant walking away and was afraid that he was abandoning him for a second time. “Bennie? What’s wrong? Come back! Where are you going?”
The servant’s face filled the top of the box one more time. “I wasn’t going nowhere. When ya mentioned you could use some vittles, it helped me remember something. The reason I came up here was to bring ya some chow, but with all the talking I forgot to gives it to ya.”
Food! Mouthwatering food! Payne couldn’t believe his luck. The image of a thick, juicy steak suddenly popped into his mind, causing his stomach to rumble like a subwoofer. “Thank you, Bennie. I’m starving.”
“First things first. I heard what Master Ndjai did to ya, and I thought ya could use a bath.” The dreadlocked servant held up a big pot of liquid, explaining what he had in mind. “Now, don’t ya be drinking this stuff while I pour it on ya. This ain’t normal water.”
“What the hell is it then?”
“Don’t ya be worrying none. I mixed up an old family recipe, one that we use to bathe babies when they be young. Not only will it makes ya clean, but it’ll make ya smell like an infant.”
“Thanks, but I already smell like piss.”
Blount smiled. “That’s not what I meant. You be smellin’ April fresh when I done with ya. I promise.” He carefully tipped the pot until the liquid flowed over Payne, surging through the grate like a great flood, washing away the stale scent of urine and the lingering stench of sweat.
“I’ll be damned!” Payne chuckled, suddenly feeling a lot better. He took a deep whiff, breathing in the fragrance. “You’re right. I smell like the goddamn Snuggle Bear. What’s in that stuff? It smells great!”
Blount’s smile quickly faded. “Trust me, Mr. Payne. You don’t wants to know. I know it made me sick the first time I found out. Yuck!”
Although he was curious about the secret ingredient, Payne quickly changed subjects. “Bennie, now that I’m clean, what do you have for me to eat?”