Vultures in the Wind

by Peter Rimmer

  “I’ll remember. What’s going to happen in Rhodesia, Aldo?”

  “There going to be a war,” replied Aldo, with an air of inevitability.

  “You going to win?”

  “No. Neither are they. All we do is kill lots of people. You want more pig, anyone? Go and cut.”

  “The blacks want independence,” said Ben.

  Aldo looked at the reporter, choosing his words carefully. “They want many things they not got. A war will not make them rich. Not make them like you and me. A war make them poor, very poor. Politicians not worry about people. Only power. Their power. Always same. Out here, in bush it obvious. I always see clearly from a long way away. Tomorrow we shoot a lion and you all go home like men. There one lion on the licence and Ben write about it. Matt, you watch.”

  “Prefer not to, Aldo. I like live lions, not dead ones.”

  “He old and one bad foot. Good head. Good trophy.”

  “You go and shoot. I’ll stay in camp and fish for tiger fish.”

  “What is difference?”

  “The tiger fish don’t look at me before I pull them out of the water.”

  “You can’t eat a tiger fish any more than a lion.”

  “Then I’ll fish for bream…” His friend, Luke, now a guerrilla leader. Matt shuddered at the thought, and went cold.

  If the white Afrikaner had not invented apartheid, the Americans would have had to look for another whipping boy to assuage the aspirations of their civil rights movement. Ben Munroe was conscious of the hypocrisy, but castigating the whites in Africa made good copy and, whether Newsweek bought his articles or someone else’s, it was a living. Drawing attention to a United Nations that applied sanctions when fifteen years earlier they had been happy to have the whites of Southern Rhodesia fight alongside them in Korea was not what the Americans wanted to hear. In 1950, the same National Party had been in power in South Africa, and the white settlers had ruled Rhodesia. But that was before Little Rock.

  In the article, he wanted to write that Matthew Gray, exploiter of the black man, was the bad guy and the good guy was Luke Mbeki, the gallant guerrilla fighter who was going to liberate his people. Ben knew the white Americans had a bad attack of guilt as the Negro in his country had been treated a lot worse than the Afrikaner was now treating the tribes of Africa. Ben sensed a sensational, on-going story paralleling the lives of Matt and Luke. He would be able to give faces to the appalling wealth disparity created by apartheid. The human interest would make him famous. Luke Mbeki had told him that not all settlers needed the bullet, that he had grown up with a white boy. And now he had met the twin. With great patience, Ben stalked his prey while the other members of the shooting party stalked the old lion with the good head.

  The first article was a sensation, read by Luke in Lusaka and Matt in his new office on the second floor of Jupiter House. None of the facts were wrong. Luke had been taken from Matt’s flat and beaten up by the South African police, but his friend had not sold him to the police, as inferred in the article. Luke even picked up the phone in his Lusaka apartment to speak to Matt.

  “He’s not like that,” she shouted.

  Chelsea was crying.

  “I know…” then he put down the phone. Matt was the one weakness in his struggle for the freedom of his people. He could not afford to be sentimental. They were both victims.

  For a week, Matt was a dubious celebrity and only stopped the sniping of the American and British newspapers by calling a televised press conference to challenge any reporter to interview him with Luke Mbeki on camera. He appealed to Luke to get in touch with him and describe their childhood together.

  “Luke Mbeki is my friend and I am his. That is a fact. We were born on the same day in Port St Johns and educated by my mother. We are twins, one black, one white, but inseparable twins and, whatever the politicians do to us, that fact will never change.”

  For weeks Matt waited expectantly for Luke to contact him. He worked harder in his effort to forget the accusations. By the middle of summer, Chelsea and Ben Munroe were out of his mind. By the time his restraint clause expired, Lion Life would be ready to go public.

  On 30 September 1968, Threadneedle Insurance doubled its dividend while Jonathan Holland spent his first term at Charterhouse. In October, Edward Todd Botha played rugby for Oxford University. He had turned twenty in May.

  In Johannesburg, his grandfather David Todd was now certain that someone was buying his shares. He was also sure that Lion Life was using a slight variation of his products but was told he could do nothing to stop their plagiarism. He was now eighty-two years old and chief executive of Security Holdings, waiting for his grandson to join the company. Then he would appoint a committee to run the business until Edward had the accumulated experience to take over. It had crossed his mind that Matthew might be that predator, but he had done so much for the boy; it would not be Matthew Gray. Anyway, he was tired and wanted to rest. He had done more than most people in a lifetime.

  The Life Office Association of London met at the request of two of its senior members at the end of November, with thick fog swirling up to the city from the Pool of London. The meeting was well attended, and took place in the boardroom of a firm of accountants who lent their large room to major clients for such occasions.

  The chairman, a man in his late fifties, was suffering the consequences of eating for many years in the best clubs and restaurants in the capital. He was a man who had been honoured by his queen with a sword tap on the shoulder, though he had not been able to receive the occasion on his knees, as to kneel and rise again was a physical impossibility. He was a jolly man with a broad minded disposition. Inside the fat that comprised his cheeks sat merry little eyes that twinkled when all was going well. That day at the end of November was an exception, and the twinkling eyes were dimmed while his large belly rested uncomfortably on the polished board table. How the pin-stripe trousers stayed attached to his body was a secret known only by the chairman and his tailor, some people saying that not even his wife knew the method of fixing or suspension. Sir Cedric was a successful man… He called for order.

  “Geoffrey gave me his opinion in private, and I don’t want any minutes taken of this meeting.” The cream of London’s life insurance industry subsided into silence as the chairman let his un-twinkling eyes search the room. Every member had been suited in Saville Row, and every one of them looked as well polished as the table. To add to the richness of the gathering, all but two of the twenty-seven members present were smoking the best of cigars even before they had partaken of luncheon. The chairman, aware of the needs of his own well-covered frame, had wisely called the meeting in the morning. He would take them all to his club when the matter of Lion Life had been dealt with, as dealt with he was determined it would be. Colonials, let alone unconventional colonials, were not welcome in the city of London.

  “Geoffrey, you had better tell everyone what you told me.” Geoffrey stood up with some difficulty. He too was overweight and under-haired.

  “They are using young girls to sell their policies, and it is my opinion that these girls are kicking back more than money to their customers. As you know, sharing of agents’ commission with the customer is illegal.”

  “As is prostitution,” interrupted the chairman, his own indignation getting the better of him.

  “The Lion Life girls are fornicating with their clients.”

  “Disgusting,” a man said from the side of the table, while three of the members were forced to turn their heads away from the proceedings as they were unable to control their smiles.

  “Do all of the salesgirls do this?” asked one of them, barely containing his laughter.

  “I believe so.”

  “Do they do it before or after they receive the signed proposal form?”

  “What on earth does that matter?”

  “One is payment. The other is thanks. I do not believe the latter is illegal. Neither fornication nor adultery is illegal in the
United Kingdom. I suspect that most of the clients are married?”

  “We believe so.”

  “Then it is the wives who should be calling this meeting.”

  “Do you know the close rate of Lion Life is three times greater than any office represented at this table?”

  “I’m not surprised,” said another of the members, who had turned his head from the chairman to avoid the penetrating eyes.

  “I believe all the girls are hand-picked, well-trained, highly motivated and, above all, extremely pretty. What else would you expect?”

  “Lion Life is trading at an unfair and illegal advantage.”

  “Unfair, maybe; illegal only if the policy is taken out on the promise of sex. You must prove these girls are selling sex and not insurance.”

  “Then I will prove my point,” said Geoffrey. “I will take out a policy with Lion Life.

  “And stand up in court afterwards and say you had sex with a prostitute! Whatever would Doris have to say about that!”

  “I won’t actually have sex; don’t be silly. I’ll record her sales pitch.” The younger member said nothing, though he would have given a large sum of money to be a fly on the wall when the pitch was made. The chairman closed the meeting, saying that they would return when Sir Geoffrey had completed his research.

  The call came through to the new receptionist. She was very, very tall and Nordic, whereas Chelsea had been black. Her body shape was amazing, especially in that everything was half as large again as normal.

  “You wish to have one of our sales ladies call at your flat this evening?” the receptionist asked on the phone. “Please give me your name, and your home and office phone numbers, and I will put you through.” The Nordic beauty barely heard the name and was refused both phone numbers.

  The receptionist switched the PABX and Lucky came on the line. “Another of those calls, Lucky.”

  “Put him through… Yes, good morning. My name is Lucky Kuchinski; I am a sales manager, Mister…” There was silence for a moment and the line went dead. A minute later, the switchboard rang again, and Geoffrey gave a false name and false phone numbers. “We’ll ring you back, Mister Halifax.”

  A minute and a half afterwards, the same voice, badly disguised, said his name was Geoffrey Gould and gave the number of his club, a club that was always discreet. “We’ll call you back, Mister Gould” By the time she had phoned the number and asked for Mr Gould, to be told Sir Geoffrey was not in the club just then, the Lion Life receptionist was enjoying herself. She talked again to Lucky, who walked across from his office to have a chat with Matt.

  “Geoffrey Gould,” he said to Matt. “Got a knighthood by giving Wilson a quarter of a million for the party. Deputy chairman of life offices association. What do we do, Matt?”

  “Sell him a policy. It’s what he says he wants.”

  “He’s CEO of the largest life office in Britain.”

  “Then he’ll understand the better value of our policies with its full investment disclosure. He’ll know that money put in Lion Life will grow faster than money put into his own company. Full disclosure by all life offices is what the public needs. He may see the benefit of honest selling. Gould… Probably Gold, originally, Jewish. Put Janet on the job.”

  Janet Landau put a call through to the club and was called back by Sir Geoffrey an hour later. A meeting was arranged in Janet’s flat for the following evening.

  When the LOA of London reconvened its meeting on the Thursday, Sir Geoffrey played back the tape he had recorded. Janet Landau had made her sales pitch in a slow, husky voice, describing the Lion Life Policy and the full financial position of investment charges, brokerage and overheads. The machine was turned off by Sir Geoffrey. Then he folded his arms in indignation.

  “She was dressed so you missed nothing. Lights dim. In her own flat. Big couch. Soft music. Poured me a stiff whisky.”

  “What happened?” asked the chairman.

  “I bought the policy. Had to. I mean…”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. She said I would have to undergo a medical and she’d arrange that the following day.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I went at eleven o’clock and was accepted that afternoon. Three hundred pounds a month for the next fifteen years. When I’m sixty-five…”

  “By the sound of your tape recording, you made a good investment.”

  “Did she provide you with sex?”

  “No. Not even a second whisky, I’m afraid. She said her husband was due home in ten minutes and I got out of that flat as fast as I could… And do you know something else. She was Jewish.” This time, three of the members burst out laughing and the twinkle returned to the chairman’s eyes.

  “Expensive but educational.” said the chairman, and closed the meeting.

  Matthew Gray introduced mass marketing to Threadneedle Insurance and Lion Life at the same time. The sponsor was British Petroleum. Matthew, always attacking the top, had written a short, succinct letter stating that he could reduce the short-term insurance premiums of BP service stations by forty-two per cent if BP sponsored a programme for their marketers. The pension programme would give the staff of the garages the same benefits as a BP salaried employee. They would not require a medical and was transferable within the BP dealers’ network. Matt said he would call the BP chairman on the telephone and make an appointment.

  Six months later, after the policies had been scrutinised by the BP financial director and his staff, Matt was able to launch his program to the BP dealers, using a special letterhead which included the BP logo. The result was in line with his earlier experiences, only this time he was able to cut out the broker and the broker’s commission. A mainframe IBM computer had been installed and programmed to process new business brought in by the team of men Matt had trained to call on each of the dealers individually to sign up the policies. A policy and a summary of the policy’s conditions in intelligible English were then sent to the dealer, while his petrol account with BP was debited monthly with the insurance premium. One cheque was received by Matt from BP, who programmed the payment at minimal cost. The accounting cost saving to Matt, passed on to the BP dealer, was eighteen per cent of the gross premium.

  By the end of 1969, the whole of Jupiter House was occupied by Matt’s companies and Mrs Holland found that she could afford to renovate the family manor house that was ready to fall down. Matt went down to the house during the school holidays and gave Jonathan a father’s encouragement and, in the spring of 1970, flew the boy to Rhodesia where Aldo Calucci introduced him to a live lion.

  The bush war in Rhodesia had yet to start, though Luke Mbeki, not far from Aldo’s camp on the Zambezi River, was training guerrilla fighters to infiltrate across the river in dugout canoes. These were used to cache arms throughout the rebel colony in preparation for a full-scale attack from Zambia by the forces of Joshua Nkomo, and later from Mozambique by the forces of Robert Mugabe. Though Luke and the Rhodesian police knew what was happening, the public did not, and Jonathan Holland spent the most exciting two weeks of his life three kilometres from a major ZIPRA cache of RPG rockets, launchers and mines, AK47 rifles and boxes of well-sealed ammunition.

  When the boy returned to Charterhouse for the summer term he told everyone he was going out to Rhodesia to grow tobacco when he left school. At the camp had been three tobacco farmers with wide-brimmed hats, short shorts and veldskoens, talking of vast hectares of green tobacco, despite the British inspired sanctions. The presence of real men and live lions had been too much for the fifteen year old boy.

  In the summer of 1970, six months after his restraint clause expired, Matt made his hostile bid for Security Holdings, announcing that he owned twenty-three per cent of the company. At the same time, Lion Life was sold into Threadneedle Insurance company in a reverse takeover, giving Lion Life shareholders control of Threadneedle Insurance, which was then floated on the London stock exchange. Shares in a company established i
n 1928 were easier to market. Security Holdings shareholders were offered either cash for their shares or shares in Threadneedle Insurance. One of the major buyers of the shares was Smythe-Wilberforce Industries.

  A week after the offer was made public, David Todd had a heart attack. The man who had fought for South Africa at Delville Wood in World War I was dead. Back from Oxford, Edward Botha, the sole beneficiary of David Todd’s Security Holdings shares that had been left to him in a death duty-free offshore trust, took over the company and announced to the press that he would fight the hostile takeover. He was twenty-two years of age.

  The only person in the financial markets who did not underestimate the boy was Matthew Gray. He had started young himself and with a quarter of Edward Todd Botha’s education. Matt was also aware that Botha had the Afrikaner establishment behind his determination to retain control of what had been his grandfather’s company. If Matt was not careful, he was about to fight the Boer War all over again.

  Realising the strength of the opposition, Matt put Archie Fletcher-Wood in charge of his pyramid company, Lion Holdings, and returned to South Africa. When he stepped down from the plane at Jan Smuts airport, he stamped twice on the tarmac. He was glad to be home. He was thirty-eight, and fitter than most men of thirty. Not a hair had been lost of his strong head of hair, though a trace of grey was showing through the rich brown. His back straight and making the best use of his nearly two-metre height, he strode across to the terminal building. Fifteen years after founding Gray Associates, he was home again to buy back his company.

  He went through customs quickly and found himself a taxi. Three-quarters of an hour later, the taxi dropped him at the Balalaika Hotel where he booked in, sending his luggage to his rondavel by bell-boy. Then he walked across the few metres from reception into the Cock and Hen bar.

  It was six-thirty in the afternoon and some of the team had already arrived. Felix, the barman, was polishing a glass.

  “Hi, Matt! What you drinking?”