Wild Justice

by Wilbur Smith

  She seemed to epitomize everything he admired in a woman:

  Her body was in the condition of a trained athlete. Beneath the oyster silk of her blouse her arms were delicately sculpted from toned muscle, the waist narrow, the breasts very small and unfettered, their lovely shape pressing clearly through fine material, her clean lightly tanned skin glowed with health and careful grooming. All this contributed to his attraction.

  However, the greater part was in Peter’s own mind. He knew she was a woman of extraordinary strength and achievement, that was pure aphrodisiac for him, and she exuded also the challenging air of being unattainable. The regal eyes mocked his evident masculinity with the untouchable aloofness of a queen or a goddess. She seemed to be smiling inwardly, a cool patronizing smile at his admiration, which she realized was no more than her due. Quickly Peter reviewed what he knew of her.

  She had begun her association with the Baron as his private secretary, and in five years had become indispensable to him. The Baron had recognized her ability by rapidly elevating her to the boards of directors, first of some of the group’s lesser subsidiaries, and finally to that of the central holding company. When the Baron’s physical strength had begun to decline in his losing battle with an inexorable cancer, he came to rely more upon her, trust well placed as it soon turned out. For she ran the complex empire of heavy industrial companies, of electronics and armaments corporations, of banking and shipping and property developments, like the son he never had. When he married her he was fifty-eight years of age, almost thirty years her senior, and she had been a perfect wife as she had been a perfect business partner.

  She had assembled and personally delivered the massive ransom demanded by his abductors, against the advice of the French police, going alone and unguarded to a meeting with merciless killers, and when they had returned the Baron’s fearfully mutilated corpse to her, she had mourned him and buried him and continued to run the empire she had inherited, with vision and strength so far beyond her years.

  She was twenty-nine years old. No, that had been two years ago, Peter realized, as he bowed over her hand, not quite touching the smooth cool fingers with his lips. She would be thirty-one years old now. She wore a single ring on her wedding finger, a solitaire diamond, not a particularly large diamond, not more than six carats but of such a perfect whiteness and fire that it seemed to be endowed with its own life. It was the choice of a woman of immense wealth and even greater style.

  As Peter straightened, he realized that she was appraising him as carefully as he was her. It seemed that he would be unable to conceal anything from those slanted emerald eyes, but he returned her gaze steadily, knowing without conceit that he could withstand any such scrutiny; still intrigued, however, with the certainty that she had known him.

  ‘Your name has been much in the news recently,’ she said, as if in explanation.

  There were sixteen for lunch, including Steven and Pat’s three children and Melissa-Jane. It was a happy, relaxed meal, but the Baroness was seated at a distance that made it impossible for Peter to speak directly to her, and though he strained to follow her conversation, her voice was low and addressed mostly to Steven and the editor of one of the national daily newspapers who flanked her. Peter found himself fully occupied in fending off the breathless attention of the pretty but feather-brained blonde on his left. She was a starlet who had married well and divorced even better. She had been handpicked by Pat Stride. Peter’s sister-in-law was indefatigable in her efforts to find him a suitable replacement for Cynthia. Twelve years of straight failures had not daunted her in the least.

  There was still time for Peter to notice that though the Baroness sipped once or twice at her wine, the level in the glass never fell, and she picked only lightly at her plate.

  Though Peter watched her covertly, the Baroness never glanced once in his direction. It was only as they went through for coffee that she came directly and unaffectedly to his side.

  ‘Steven tells me there are Roman ruins on the estate,’ she said.

  ‘I could show them to you. It is a lovely walk up through the woods.’

  ‘Thank you. I do have some business to discuss with Steven before that; shall we meet at three o’clock?’

  She had changed into a loose tweed skirt and jacket that would have looked bulky on a shorter or plumper woman, and high boots in the same lavender tinted brown. Under it she wore a cashmere roll-neck jersey, and a scarf of the same fine wool hung down her back. A wide-brimmed hat with a bright feather in the band was pulled down over her eyes.

  She walked in silence, hands thrust deeply into the big pockets of her jacket, making no effort to protect the expensive boots from mud, thorns of damp bracken. She moved with a flowing, long-legged grace, swinging from the hips so that her shoulder and head seemed to float beside Peter, at a not much lower level than his own. Had she not been a world leader in finance and industry, she might have made a great model, he decided. She had a talent for making clothes look important and elegant, while treating them with indifference.

  Peter respected her silence, pleased to be able to step out to match her pace, as they went up through the dark dripping woods that smelt of leaf mould and cold rain, the oaks bare and moss-pelted, seeming to beseech a purplegrey sky with arthritic limbs held high.

  They came out on the higher open ground without having stopped once, although the path had been steep and the ground soft underfoot.

  She was breathing deeply but evenly, and she had coloured just sufficiently to flatter the high Slavic cheeks. She must be in peak physical condition, he thought.

  ‘Here they are.’ Peter indicated the barely discernible grass-covered ditch that circled the hilltop. ‘They are not very impressive, but I didn’t want to warn you in advance.’

  She smiled now. ‘I have been here before,’ she said in that intriguing husky accent.

  ‘Well, we are off to a flying start. We have both deceived each other at our first meeting—’ Peter chuckled.

  ‘I came all the way from Paris,’ she explained. ‘It was most inconvenient really—the business I had to discuss with Sir Steven could have been completed by telephone in five minutes. What I had to discuss with you could only be done face by face—’ She corrected herself immediately. ‘I am sorry, face to face.’ It was a rare slip Steven had been strangely insistent that Peter spend this particular weekend at Abbots Yew, and was certainly party to this encounter.

  ‘I am flattered by the interest of such a beautiful lady—’

  Instantly she frowned, and with a gesture of irritation cut short the compliment as frivolous.

  ‘Very recently you were approached by the Narmco section of Seddler Steel with an offer to head their Sales Division,’ she said, and Peter nodded. Since his resignation had been accepted by the War Office, there had been many offers. ‘The terms of employment offered were extraordinarily generous.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘You prefer the cloistered academic life, perhaps?’ she asked, and though Peter’s expression did not change, he was taken off balance. It seemed impossible that she could know of the offer of the Chair of Modern Military History that he had been offered by a leading American university, an offer with which he was still toying idly.

  ‘There are some books I want to read and write,’ Peter said.

  ‘Books. You have an important collection, and I have read those you have written. You are an interesting contradiction, General Stride. The man of direct action, and at the same time of deep political and social thought.’

  ‘I confuse myself at times,’ Peter smiled. ‘So what chance do you have to understand me?’

  She did not rise to the smile. ‘A great deal of your writing coincides with my own conviction. As for your action, if I had been a man and in your position, I might have acted as you did.’

  Peter stiffened, resenting any allusion to the taking of Flight 070, and again she seemed to understand instinctively.

  ‘I refer t
o your entire career, General. From Cyprus to Johannesburg – and including Ireland.’ And he relaxed slightly.

  ‘Why did you refuse the Narmco offer?’ she asked.

  ‘Because it was presented with the unstated conviction that I could not refuse. Because the terms were so generous that they left a strange unsatisfying odour in my nostrils. Because I believe that I would have been required to perform duties in line with the reputation I seem to have acquired since the taking of Flight 070.’

  ‘What reputation is that?’ She leaned slightly towards him, and he smelled her particular aroma. The way perfume reacted upon that petally-smooth skin, heated by the exertion of the climb up the hill. She smelled faintly of crushed lemon blossom and clean healthy mature woman. He felt himself physically aroused by it, and had an almost undesirable impulse to reach out and touch her, to feel the warmth and glossiness of her skin.

  ‘A man who makes accommodations, perhaps,’ he answered her.

  ‘What did you think you might have been asked to do?’

  This time he shrugged. ‘Perhaps carry bribes to my one-time colleagues in NATO Command, to induce them to consider favourably the products of Narmco.’

  ‘Why would you believe that?’

  ‘I was once a decision-making officer in that Command.’

  She turned away from him and looked out across the special greens of an English winter landscape, the orderly fields and pastures, the dark wedges and geometrical shapes of the woods and copses.

  ‘Do you know that through Altmann Industries and other companies I control a majority shareholding in Seddler Steel, and naturally in Narmco?’

  ‘No,’ Peter admitted. ‘But I cannot say I am surprised.’

  ‘Did you know that the offer from Narmco was in reality from me personally?’

  This time he said nothing.

  ‘You are quite right, of course, your contacts with the upper echelon of NATO and with the British and American high commands would have been worth every centime of the extravagant salary you were offered. As for bribes—’ She smiled then suddenly, and it altered her face entirely, making her seem many years younger, and there was a warmth and a sense of fun that he would not have suspected, —this is a capitalist society, General. We prefer to talk about commissions and introducer’s fees.’

  He found himself smiling back at her, not because of what she had said, but simply because her smile was irresistible.

  ‘However, I, give you my solemn word that you would never have been expected to offer or carry – no, since Lockheed were indiscreet, it has changed. Nothing disreputable could ever be traced back to Narmco, and certainly not to the top men there. Certainly not to you.’

  ‘It’s all academic now,’ Peter pointed out. ‘I’ve refused the offer.’

  ‘I disagree, General Stride.’ The brim of the hat covered her eyes as she looked down. ‘I hope that when you hear what I had hoped to achieve you may reconsider. I made the error of trying to keep us at arms’ length to begin with. I relied on the generosity of the offer to sway you. I do not usually misjudge people so dismally—’ and she looked up and smiled again, and this time reached out and touched his arm. Her fingers were like her limbs, long and slim, but they were delicately tapered and the nails were shaped and lacquered to a glossy fleshy pink. She left them on his arm as she went on speaking.

  ‘My husband was an extraordinary man. A man of vast vision and strength and compassion. Because of that they tortured and killed him—’ her voice had sunk to a hoarse catchy whisper‘– hey killed him in the most vile manner—’ She stopped, but made no attempt to turn her head away, she was unashamed of the tears that filled both eyes but did not break over the lower lids. She did not even blink, and it was Peter who looked away first Only then she moved her hand, slipping it lightly into the crook of Peter’s elbow and coming beside him so her hip almost touched his.

  ‘It will rain soon,’ she said, her voice level and controlled. ‘We should go down.’ And as they started, she went on talking.

  ‘The butchers who did that to Aaron went free, while an impotent society looked on. A society which has systematically stripped itself of defence against the next attack. America has virtually disbanded its intelligence system, and so shackled and exposed what is left that it is powerless. Your own country is concerned only with its particular problems, as are we in the rest of Europe—there is no international approach to a problem that is international in scope. Atlas was a fine concept, limited as it was by the fact that it was a force that could only be used in retaliation and then only in special circumstances. However, if they ever suspect that it exists, the denizens of the left will mass to tear it down like a hunting pack of hyena.’ She squeezed his arm lightly, and looked sideways at him with a solemn slant of the emerald eyes. ‘Yes, General, I do know about Atlas—but do not ask me how.’

  Peter said nothing, and they entered the forest, stepping carefully, for the path was slick and steep.

  ‘After the death of my husband, I began to think a great deal about how we could protect the world that we know, while still remaining within the laws which were first designed to do that. With Altmann Industries I had inherited a comprehensive system of international information-gathering; naturally it was attuned almost entirely to commercial and industrial considerations—’ She went on talking in that low intense voice that Peter found mesmeric, describing how she had gradually used her massive fortune and influence to reach across borders closed to most to gain the overall view of the new world of violence and intimidation. ‘– I was not tied by considerations such as that of Interpol, forbidden by suicidal laws to involve itself in any crime that has political motivation. It was only when I was able to pass on what I had learned that I found myself coming up against the same self-destructive state of mind that masquerades as democracy and individual freedom. Twice I was able to anticipate a terrorist strike and to warn the authorities, but intention is not a crime, I was told, and both the culprits were quietly escorted to the border and turned free to prepare themselves almost openly for the next outrage. The world must wait and cringe for the next stroke, prohibited from making any pre-emptive strike to prevent it, and when it comes they are hampered by confused national responsibilities and by the complicated concept of minimum force—’ The Baroness broke off. ‘But you know all this! You have written in depth of the same subject.’

  ‘It’s interesting to hear it repeated.’

  ‘I will come soon enough to the interesting part – but we are almost back at the house.’

  ‘Come,’ Peter told her, and led her past the stables to the swimming pool pavilion. The surface of the heated pool steamed softly, and lush tropical plants were in odd contrast to the wintry scene beyond the glass walls.

  They sat side by side on a swing seat, close enough to be able to talk in subdued tones, but the intense mood was broken for the moment. She took off her hat, scarf and jacket, and tossed them onto the cane chair opposite, and she sighed as she settled back against the cushions.

  ‘I understand from Sir Steven that he wants you to go into the bank.’ She slanted her eyes at him. ‘It must be difficult to be so sought after.’

  ‘I don’t think I have Steven’s reverence for money.’

  ‘It’s a readily acquired taste, General Stride,’ she assured him. ‘One that can become an addiction.’

  At that moment the children of both Stride brothers arrived in a storm of shouted repartee and laughter, which moderated only marginally when they realized that Peter and the Baroness were in the swing seat.

  Steven’s youngest son, bulging over the top of his costume with puppy-fat and with silver braces on his front teeth, rolled his eyes in their direction and in a stage whisper told Melissa-Jane, ‘Je t’aime, ma chérie, swoon! swoon!’ His accent was frighteningly bad and he received a hissed rebuke and a shove in the small of the back that hurled him into the deep end of the pool.

  The Baroness smiled. ‘Your daughter is very prot
ective—’ she turned slightly to examine Peter’s face again’ – or is it merely jealousy?’ Without waiting for an answer she went straight on to ask another question. Against the background of shouts and splashes, Peter thought he had misheard.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked carefully, certain that his expression had revealed nothing, and she repeated.

  ‘Does the name Caliph mean anything to your

  He frowned slightly, pretending to consider, while his memory darted back to the terrible micro-seconds of mortal combat, of smoke and flame and gunfire and a dark-haired girl in a scarlet shirt screaming:

  ‘Don’t kill us! Caliph said we would not die. Caliph—’ And his own bullets stopping the rest of it, smashing into the open mouth. The word had haunted him since then, and he had tried a thousand variations, looking for sense and meaning, considering the possibility that he had misheard. Now he knew he had not.

  ‘Caliph?’ he asked, not knowing why he was going to deny it, merely because it seemed vital that he keep something in reserve, that he were not carried headlong on the torrent of this woman’s presence and personality. ‘It’s a Mohammedan title – I think it literally means the heir of Mohammed, the successor to the prophet.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded impatiently. ‘It’s the title of a civil and religious leader – but have you heard it used as a code name?’

  ‘No. I am sorry, I have not What is the significance?’

  ‘I am not sure, even my own sources are obscure and confused.’ She sighed, and they watched Melissa-Jane in silence. The child had been waiting for Peter’s attention, and when she had it she ran lightly out along the spring-board and launched herself, light as a swallow in flight, into a clean one-and-a-half somersault, entering the water with hardly a ripple and surfacing immediately with fine pale hair slick down across her face, immediately looking again for Peter’s approval.

  ‘She’s a lovely child,’ said the Baroness. ‘I have no children. Aaron wanted a son – but there was not one.’ And there was real sorrow in the green eyes that she masked quickly. Across the pool Melissa-Jane climbed from the pool and quickly draped a towel around her shoulders, covering her bosom which was now large enough and yet so novel as to provide her with a constant source of embarrassment and shy pride.