Vultures in the Wind

by Peter Rimmer

  “You lost me a while ago, Matt.”

  “Lucky, don’t go to the Congo. Wait till I get back. Got to go.”

  By the time Matthew returned with everything he wanted, his friends had gone. It was the first chill wind he had felt since starting Gray Associates, but he was too busy to give it sufficient thought. The financial press had picked up the news of his joint venture with the Bank of Montreal, one of the largest banks in the world, and with Hambros Bank, the large British merchant bank. Within a week of his two best friends entering a military camp as private soldiers under Major Mike Hoare, Matthew was a celebrity. He was a perfect target. Young, tall and rich. The socialite invitations began in earnest and the background of his girlfriends moved into the rich and famous. Sunny Tupper was not sure if the change was such a good thing, but she was so busy with her own social life that she only concentrated on her business life when with Matthew Gray. Later, many years later, Matthew was to look back and tell himself that it would have been for the better if Sunny had resigned that first time around, and become his love and who knew what else. She was certainly the only woman in the business world he was ever able to trust.

  Sadly, Matthew saw less and less of Luke. Luke lived in Soweto and Matthew needed a permit to visit the black township, something rarely given by the police, and none, of the watering holes were multi-racial. Occasionally they spoke on the phone, Luke working in the actuarial department of Security Life and studying for his actuarial degree. Luke rented a small house in a good Soweto suburb away from the coal stoves and the vicious poverty. He visited the Transkei and dated women and, if his Zambian friend had not given his name to the ANC recruitment officer in London, he would probably have remained non-political. He had his friends, a good job and a future. What he failed to realise was that he was one of a very few blacks in Africa with such a fortunate scenario.

  When Hector applied to South Africa House in the Strand to join the South African army, he was told that he would have to become a South African citizen, and it would take five years of living there before he was eligible. Even the Russians could be wrong. The interviewing officer, a young Afrikaner by the name of Swart, all but one of the embassy staff being Afrikaans, asked him what else he would like to apply for, and pulled out a questionnaire. Hector smiled to himself when the name of the prestigious English public school that had been in existence four hundred years meant nothing to the Afrikaner. His tertiary education drew a better response. The man had heard of Cambridge.

  “Did you obtain a degree?”

  “Honours in industrial chemistry.”

  “Say that again.” Young Swart interviewed some twenty people a day, all eager to emigrate to South Africa as the tax and cost of living, coupled with salary in England, made an individual’s wealth in real terms about half the value it would be in South Africa, where the country was enjoying a growth rate of just under ten per cent.

  “Bachelor of science, chemistry.”

  “And you had good marks?”

  “I believe they were the best in my year.” Even Hector recognised that the genes that gave him life had come from the inventor of the first detergent, leaving an indelible print stronger than the more fickle fruit of money.

  Frikkie Swart took his menial job seriously, and read all the memoranda that concerned immigration in South Africa. The ‘powers that be’ had recognised their country’s dependence on imported products of a strategic nature, and that the world would be able to use these products as weapons against South Africa in its efforts to destroy its white, non-communist government. The Afrikaners’ problems were oil and arms, the lack of good artillery in the war against the British at the turn of the century having taught them a lesson. So they put into operation their plans to provide their country with alternatives to imported products. Secretly, they had formed Armscor and Sasol, the former to develop sophisticated arms and the latter to extract oil, non-existent naturally in South Africa, from coal, which was in abundant supply. Both were backed by massive government funds. Hector’s qualification would make him an excellent acquisition for the country.

  “It is possible we could find you a job in the chemical business, and if after five years you still wish to join our army, you could change over. Why do you wish to come to South Africa?”

  “I detest socialism in all its forms, and Hugh Gaitskell in particular.”

  Swart kept the excitement out of his eyes. The man was too good to be true. A potentially brilliant chemist nurtured in one of the best universities in the world, and an Englishman who would probably vote NAT when he became a South African citizen.

  “Do you agree with our policy of separate development of black and whites in our country, and the creation of homelands where the blacks will be able to live and vote, coming to the white areas only to work?”

  “Wholeheartedly. Look what has happened in the Congo. A model colony overrun by communism and lost in anarchy. Sharpeville was unfortunate, but no one can make an omelette without breaking the eggs. You can’t just go and work in America without a green card, so why should the blacks work in white cities without a permit? There has to be control in this world, something Hugh Gaitskell doesn’t understand. Anyway, I think he’s a communist. The unions are run by the commies, and the unions are going to put Gaitskell into power at the next election, which is why I want to get out of this country. How quickly can you get me a passage?”

  “Maybe a month. Will that be suitable? You don’t have a police record?”

  “I thought that was only needed to get into Australia.”

  They both laughed like good friends enjoying an old joke “Officers in the British army do not have police records,” Hector finished. “They are officers and gentlemen.”

  “Do you have any funds to bring to South Africa?”

  “Not until my father dies, and then he’ll leave the money to the cats’ home. Despite being a capitalist, he is handing out millions to the labour party. He is a socialist, I know that. His public image is a contradiction. We hate each other. My mother is very aloof and has no time for me, and I have no brothers and sisters. There is nothing to keep me in England. I believe every young man should make his own way in life. I obtained a county scholarship to Cambridge, despite my father’s wealth.”

  When he left the embassy, Hector thought he had covered all the cracks in his story. It gave him pleasure to label his father a socialist.

  The Edinburgh Castle gave Hector Fortescue-Smythe none of the problems encountered by Luke Mbeki. The assisted passage (he paid ten pounds) put him in a four-berth with a blacksmith, an electrician and a sanitary engineer, people whom Hector secretly thought the salt of the earth and the people to whom he was dedicating his life. The hiccup over getting into the army was quickly turned to advantage, with Hector applying to join the secret company that Frikkie Swart confided to him was the embryo Armscor. The South African policy change in allowing the English into the armed forces was noted with interest. The Russians had only just got their Swiss national into the navy in time.

  Instead of the rude demand for a pass book at immigration in Cape Town Hector was welcomed with a smile. He was told how to find his hotel that was being paid for by the South African government before flying to Johannesburg to take up his job. He had moved into the country so smoothly that there was not even a ripple left in his wake.

  Luke’s reaction to the approach from the military wing of the ANC would have been polite and mild, probably even including a cash contribution, had he not gone to Matthew’s flat on David Todd’s instruction. The chairman of Security Life had judged it better not to telephone Matthew direct but to send his godson a friendly warning and some good advice: don’t rock the established way of things in the insurance industry, otherwise things will start going wrong at Gray Associates.

  “Hey, Luke,” Matthew said on the phone when his friend asked if he might come over to the flat. “Good idea. Last time you were frightened of the cops. Come and have supper tonight,
stay over and I’ll drop you at your office in the morning. When you’ve finished work, come over here. Nice talking to you again… You okay, Luke?”

  “I’m just fine, Matt. Never been better. This job keeps a man working all the time.”

  After supper in Matthew’s apartment, Luke brought up the subject that was bothering David Todd and most of the life insurance offices. Six months earlier, Matthew had decided to analyse the different insurance policies offered by the life insurance companies to decide which one was the best. The project seemed to be simple and clinical. He wanted to know which company would give an investor placing one hundred rand every month the best return on his money.

  Matthew was concerned with the fact that most maturing policies were giving the investor much less than he expected. The key words to the problem were ‘estimated’ and ‘inflation’. The estimated capital sum thirty years down the line turned most policyholders into rich men at today’s value of money. The insurance companies sold the public policies on an “if we earn twelve per cent for thirty years you will get ‘x’.” It was similar to asking a man the length of a piece of string.

  Trying to find out each insurance company’s investment policy was decidedly like trying to eat soup with a fork. All he got was a taste and nothing to eat. Generally speaking, the investor was giving the insurance company his money on trust and the insurance companies could pay him back, within reason, what they liked. And Matthew knew that an additional one per cent compound interest over thirty years was a lot of money. When Matthew approached the problem from the other direction, he hit a brick wall, except for two of the smaller companies who were trying to break into the market and saw Gray Associates as their opportunity.

  Matthew asked every insurance company in South Africa to tell him how they invested the one hundred rand every month, and how much went on agents’ brokerage, management commission and overheads. He then wanted to know the cost deductions for collecting interest and dividends and what insurers’ commissions were for buying and selling shares in their general policyholders’ portfolio. It was only after these deductions that the twelve per cent compound factor came into effect.

  The questionnaire he sent them was ruthlessly simple. With the information, Gray Associates would be able to give their clients professional advice, as they did on the short-term account, where Gray’s claimed they had never had a client with an uninsured loss against which he had not previously been warned in writing. To Matthew, Plato’s philosophy of ‘it can either be right or wrong but never in between’ applied equally to operations in the free-enterprise capitalist system. Honesty was the life blood that made the system work or fail. What he failed to realise was that, at the age of twenty-eight, he was firing a large cannon at the fabric of the insurance industry that by law invested thirty per cent of their income in government bonds and erected large prestigious office blocks named after the insurance company to show their policyholders the soundness of their investments.

  “It’s over forty per cent, isn’t it?” said Matthew, when he understood the point of Luke’s visit. He was referring to the amount of the monthly investment income lost to the policyholder.

  “There’s the management skill in investing correctly. There are overheads in the retail industry, bringing an average mark-up of over forty per cent. You’re rocking the boat, Matt, and Mister Todd says you should stop before you get hurt.”

  “It’s a threat?”

  “Friendly advice.”

  “Why won’t they give me the figures?”

  “Because the information is too damn valuable to the opposition,” replied Luke. “The secrets known to certain companies which make them successful would be public knowledge. You can’t patent investment skill.”

  “You agree that secrecy prevents the public buying the best policy every time.”

  “Matt, this subject’s bigger than you and I. One company is pretty similar to the other, as they all run by the same rules and invest in the same stock exchange. Marketing the product is like packaging; you have to make it look good. Normally, the bigger the company, the better and the safer the investment. Get on with selling your products and stop trying to act like an actuary. It’s my job to try and work out what is going to be fact in thirty years down the line. Now give me another glass of wine and let’s talk about anything but business. For instance, when are you getting married?”

  “And you, Luke?”

  “I find it rather difficult to find young, pretty black ladies with any kind of education.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I do, constantly. My whole social life revolves around the problem. I’m happy in the office working with challenges, but illegal shabeens in dark houses are not my idea of entertainment, and, if I walked into the Balalaika, everyone would kick me out.”

  “Not me. I hate the bloody system. I’ve got three good friends in this world. Two of them went off as mercenaries to the Congo six months ago, and the other I’m not allowed by law to entertain in my own home. The world stinks, Luke.”

  “It’ll change.”

  “It’ll change, all right. But whether it will change for the better is what I worry about. Look at the shit in the Congo. And no, don’t lets you and I get on to specific politics. Why is everything so complicated?”

  “People make it complicated. Look at the laws in this country that blatantly discriminate against my people.”

  “I’d rather not. They make me sick. Luke, let’s get some sleep. It’s two o’clock in the morning and I get up at half past six.”

  “Thanks for the supper.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  In the dark of the night, they were woken by a pounding on Matthew’s front door, bringing him out of his dreams – violent, cross-purpose dreams where he was being sucked down in a quagmire of words. He flicked on his bedside light and crawled out of bed in his underpants, looked for a dressing gown and instead pulled on his trousers.

  “Okay, okay!” he shouted. “Don’t wake the whole neighbourhood. Which one of my cherished clients is burning down his factory and wants me to piss on the fire?… Why can’t you wait till morning?” He reached the door and pulled up the catch, “Can’t you wait till morning?”

  With the catch released, five uniformed, armed and very big policemen burst through the door, pushing Matthew against his own wall.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “Who the hell are you, busting in here? Do you know who I am?”

  “He’s here, Sergeant.”

  “Bring him out. You, Mister Gray, will be charged with contravening the Group Areas Act, and your black friend is coming down to the station.

  “No, Mister Gray, don’t try that or we’ll beat you up as well, resisting arrest.” They glared at each other as Luke, half-naked, was pushed out of the flat into the night.

  The last Matthew heard was a policeman daring Luke to try to run away, and the tone of his voice made Matthew sick to the pit of his stomach. As he stared back into his lounge where half of Luke’s clothes had been left behind, the worst feeling he had was of impotence. There was no higher law to which he could turn for justice.

  By the time Matthew woke David Todd, Luke was close to death. The police had beaten him mercilessly, trying to obtain from him the names of his accomplices in the ANC. The ANC had been made illegal some time before the arrest and trial of Nelson Mandela for perpetrating the bomb blast at the Johannesburg railway station in July 1964.

  Miraculously, the only irreparable damage was to Luke’s soul. His physical beating had been done by professionals who pulled him from the brink of death. David Todd and Matthew were at the hospital when Luke arrived on a stretcher, five policemen giving sworn statements that the man had tried to escape from Rivonia police station. Even the inquiry, instigated by David Todd, came to nothing but smug smiles of “We were only doing our job.”

  Luke spent four weeks in hospital and, when he was strong enough, Matthew drove him again
to Port St Johns. Luke had changed, and Matthew was not sure whether he was now part of the hatred. They parted sadly on the beach, destined not to see each other for a further twenty-nine years. In a matter of two months, Matthew had lost his three best friends. The same pain he had felt in his fingertips so long before came back with his feeling of aching loneliness.

  It was said of Helena Kloss that mushrooms would grow on her bed sheets that she imagined the pill had been specially invented for her. Every Monday afternoon, she checked her diary and looked for evenings without a date during the coming week. She then consulted her list of current men and phoned those who had not phoned her to fill in the gaps. She had cards printed with her phone numbers, and any likely candidate was given one and told to give her a ring.

  She had long yellow hair the colour of rich cream, and a skin to match. In front were heavy, firm breasts, but not too big to need a bra. Her legs were perfect beneath a mini-skirt, and the baby eyes spoke constantly to men of naughty, sexy longings, one stage further than bedroom eyes. Helena Kloss would do it anywhere, with anyone, despite her Calvinist upbringing and the fact that her father was the Deputy Minister of Defence. She was not simply a young girl who had no regard for the family name.

  At a party, she handed one of her cards to Hector Fortescue-Smythe. After a year in South Africa, Hector now spoke fluent Afrikaans with an accent that was no longer an embarrassment. He had wangled his way to the party, as he was still very conscious of his need to find an Afrikaans wife of the correct background. The baby eyes had sent a message straight to his genitals, but that night the girl was occupied with someone else. He was not to know that he and the man currently in her sights were the only two men in the room who had not had the pleasure of sex with the Deputy Minister’s daughter.