Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  Then she rose and staggered towards the bathroom door - and as she turned he caught his breath, because now he could see her back was a mass of terrible red scars.

  Deon let himself down from the balcony and onto the lower roof of the block of flats. He waited for his breathing to return to normal. What was he going to do? What he really wanted to do was to get his riot shotgun from his car and exact his revenge on the man guarding the doorway then and there.

  There was a noise beneath him and he froze. Someone was banging on the door of the flat. He pulled himself to the edge of the roof and looked over. Frustratingly, he could see the top of the door but not the person banging on it.

  The door was opened, obviously by Helen, and her visitor went inside. Deon edged across to the square opening that looked down to the windows of the bathroom, toilets and kitchen of each flat. The voices from inside Helen’s flat echoed up to him.

  ‘Can’t you leave me alone, Johnny?’

  ‘You can’t have enough of it, can you, you bitch.’

  ‘No, Johnny . . .’

  Deon could hear her struggling, and then quite clearly the sound of a whip.

  ‘Johnny, please . . .’

  Then there was silence and he wondered if the bastard had killed her. Eventually he heard Johnny’s voice again.

  ‘You’d better bloody learn quick, Helen. The boss has been good to you. With what you know, you’re lucky to be alive. You listen good. You behave yourself and you’ll get better. Cooper­ate, and we’ll make sure you’re well looked after.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Johnny.’

  ‘Yeah, Helen, I think we’re going to have a lot of good times, you and I.’

  Johnny’s laugh echoed up and down the hollow ventilation shaft. In the dark the whites of Deon’s knuckles stood out like small moons against the black surface of the roof.

  Johnny moved casually down the street in the darkness. He’d parked some four blocks away, just to make sure that no one followed him to and from the flat. That was what Mr Aschaar had said he must do. Sidney had come to relieve him at nine o’clock. He actually wished he could have spent the night with Helen, but orders were orders. He knew better than to disobey Mr Aschaar’s commands.

  God, but she had an amazing body. He could feel himself getting hard just thinking about it. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so rough with her, but she made him lose control.

  He knew that Mr Aschaar wouldn’t be seeing much of her now; he might even sell her to some Arab. Hell, she was pumped so full of drugs it was a wonder she could string a sentence together.

  Now he was getting jumpy - he must be imagining things. Who would be following him down the road in Rosebank? It wasn’t the sort of area where people followed you, far too posh.

  He dropped back into a hedgerow instinctively and slid the knuckle-duster onto his left hand. Have to teach this jerk a lesson, he thought to himself. The man’s shadow fell across the hedge and Johnny braced himself to deliver the first blow.

  His fist sailed upwards, but was expertly deflected, and he felt himself being lifted upwards.

  ‘Sorry mate, didn’t see you.’ He blurted out the words, trying to assess the stature of his attacker. He didn’t have a chance: he was forced bodily through the hedge and into an area on the other side filled with garbage bins. A leather-gloved hand gripped

  his left wrist and then the other one came up under his left elbow. The joint cracked and he screamed.

  Johnny’s face was forced into a garbage can and he felt his mouth fill up with a foul-smelling liquid as he gasped for air. For a moment he thought his attacker had finished with him. Then he received a blow to his groin that travelled up as far as his stomach.

  He staggered backwards. Another blow hit him on the side, breaking some of his ribs. Then his jacket was torn upwards and he was thrown face-first into the dirt.

  ‘Please, I don’t deserve this . . .’

  He could see the long hair of the woman in his bedroom through the open door of his study ... He would sort out this person who was playing games on his private line. Again there was a clicking sound in the receiver when he answered the phone. Then there was another click and the line became clear. He could hear a man breathing deeply on the other end of the line.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Johnny.’

  ‘God, you’re going to be sorry you phoned me here.’

  ‘Mr Aschaar, I’m gonna die. Someone followed me from Helen’s flat. I’ve got to see a fucking doctor, for God’s sake help me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a phone booth, on the comer next to the Rosebank library.’ ‘OK. Hide yourself nearby. A car will pick you up.’

  He slammed the phone down. The man was supposed to be a pro and he’d got himself hurt. Bernard had no respect for incompetence. He picked up the phone and quickly dialled another number.

  ‘Goliath Collections.’

  ‘Jake, this is your uncle. Comer next to Rosebank library, a phone booth. The victim - Johnny - should be nearby. Find out his story, then phone me back.’

  ‘Is the victim to be preserved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  Bernard put the phone down and walked back into the bedroom.

  ‘Business, Bernard darling?’

  ‘Just a minor irritation.’

  ‘Oh Bernard, forget about that and come over here. Mmm, you’ve got such strong hands. I hope your little irritation hasn’t upset you?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’ve just decided to scratch it. Always makes me feel better.’

  Bernard Aschaar had one ambition: to gain control of the Goldcorp Group. There was only one problem - he was not Max Golden’s son. Consequently, one of Bernard’s main occupations was boosting Jay Golden’s ego, while quietly building up enough evidence to destroy the young Golden completely when the time was ripe.

  The next stage in Bernard’s master plan to control Goldcorp centred around the forthcoming meeting of the Central Merchan­dising Consortium. Max Golden had promised Jay that he would hand over the company once Jay became president of the CMC. Bernard knew the incumbent president, Tony Rudd, was about to stand down. In fact, Bernard had arranged to buy Rudd’s entire mining group for Goldcorp and thus further strengthen the company’s domination of the South African mining industry.

  There were three characteristics that chiefly distinguished the Central Merchandising Consortium: exclusivity, secrecy, and influence. Though its members were not permitted to enter certain countries with strong anti-monopoly legislation, such as the United States, sooner or later every government that counted dealt with them - openly or otherwise. Admission to the London headquarters of the CMC was a complicated affair, especially for non-members. They would generally be referred to another building further down the road, their photograph having been taken without their knowledge. A man could truly be said to have made it in the mining industry when he could walk up the steps of the CMC and pass through the doors without being stopped by one of the discreet but firm security guards. And he only retained his membership as long as he held strictly to the Consortium’s unwritten rules. Discretion and secrecy were para­mount. Many of the members were sworn enemies, but the Central Mining Consortium, with its incredible powers, held them together.

  It was known that all the members met twice every year, once in London and once in Kimberley. These meetings were rumoured to dictate the price of gold and world interest rates. To these men, the situation in South Africa was of more than passing importance; a revolution at the right time could create incredible fortunes; at the wrong time it would result in terrifying losses. Several members of the CMC were said to have more power than the South African Prime Minister . . .

  The big doors with the gold metal surrounds swung open as Bernard Aschaar walked up the steps toward the entrance of the

  CMC. Slightly behind him followed Jay Golden, heir to one of the world’s greatest fortunes and a gold mining empire
. Jay had been admitted to the CMC two years before and had already proved that he had inherited the family flair for business. Only a handful of members realised that it was not Jay but Bernard Aschaar, Max Golden’s trusted friend, who was the new genius at Goldcorp.

  What everyone did know, however, was that over the past few years the influence of the Goldcorp empire in the CMC had been increasing, and that by buying out more and more of the smaller, privately-owned gold mines across the world, they had strength­ened their position. If the Goldcorp Group continued its dynamic growth over the next few years, there was no doubt in the minds of many that Jay Golden would become the first man ever to have total control over the CMC.

  The meeting that would take place today would show just how close Goldcorp was to assuming that control. It would also show whether Jay Golden had sufficient capital to buy out the other mining companies he needed to gain over fifty per cent voting control of the CMC.

  However, unbeknown to both Jay and Bernard, a special meeting had been urgently called a day before. Several members of the CMC were terrified of what might happen if Goldcorp did gain control. Moves had been made to prevent Goldcorp buying up stock in any more mining houses, but the issue was compli­cated by the divisions that existed between the other members. Tony Rudd, who owned one of the older mining companies, was intent on getting out of the business and wanted to sell. Unfor­tunately none of the other members at the meeting had sufficient funds to buy him out - but they all knew that Goldcorp did.

  After an hour of wrangling, Sonja Seyton-Waugh, head of the Waugh Mining Company, took the floor. She was the only woman in the room and ten years younger than any of the men - but not one of them was in any doubt about her formidable business skills, especially when it came to the mining industry. She addressed Tony Rudd, a squat bulldog of a man, over sixty years old.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this, Tony. Your grandfather, Jason Rudd, arrived on the goldfields without a cent in his pocket. He wheeled and dealed like the rest of us - he went bankrupt three times. Jason Rudd believed in free enterprise. He was a founder member of the CMC and he foresaw what is happening today. You sell out to Goldcorp, Tony, and you betray everything your grandfather stood for.’

  Sonja saw that Tony was going red in the face and decided that she had said enough. At last she had had the courage to do what she had wanted to do for year. Deon had given her the confidence to fly in the face of Aschaar’s blackmail tactics.

  Tony stood up to address the table.

  ‘Goddamit, Sonja, you with your fancy words, you make me sound like a hardened criminal. You know my problems; my one son was killed in a university rugby match, the other’s a bloody drug addict. There’s no one to take over my mines when I go, and I want some peace in my old age. I’m not handing over control, I’m selling. Goldcorp has offered me fifty per cent above the market value of my mines.’

  Sonja Seyton-Waugh turned pale. She knew that they’d stepped up their offer, but by fifty per cent, that was crazy! Their capital reserves must be terrifying. She turned and looked up at the oil painting of Jason Rudd that hung on the wall - a handsome man, bearing hardly any resemblance to his mean-looking grandson.

  ‘You’ve had a very good life, Tony. We’re all very sorry about what happened to Tom, but it was a long time ago. As for Robard, he could still come right. Everyone knows he’s a renegade. Self-pity doesn’t sit easily on you, Tony; feel lucky your son didn’t turn out to be like Jay Golden.’

  Everyone was staring at her now. Her hatred of Jay Golden was legendary. Rumour had it that they’d been lovers and he’d dropped her like a lead balloon.

  ‘Jay Golden, like Bernard Aschaar, is amoral and ruthless. He doesn’t give a damn. He’ll bring down the South African govern­ment and finance a bloody revolution, then he’ll flood the market with gold, depress the prices and destroy the rest of us. After that he’ll create a scarcity and send the gold price through the roof. He’ll become one of the most powerful men of this century, along with Bernard Aschaar. Do you want to die knowing you made all that possible, Tony? For heaven’s sake, if you sell your mines to Goldcorp they’ll have seventy-five per cent control of the Far East Rand goldfields - and then there are their other goldmines, their Russian interests, Australia . . . Give me two years, Tony. Then I’ll make you a decent offer for your mines, and so will many of the people in this room.’

  Tony got up and stormed out of the room. For a moment no one said a word, then they all began to rise. Sonja held up her hand.

  ‘Wait. I know Tony Rudd. He’ll come back in here with an answer. He always does, he’s a gentleman at heart.’

  The way she said the word ‘gentleman’ seemed to imply that if any one of them left the room he certainly wasn’t worthy of that title. They all sat watching the wall clock, knowing that if Tony Rudd sold out they would be finished - and not just financially. They were all men who made their living out of gold, it was a way of life to them. Take it away, and they would be nothing.

  The door swung open and they all turned as Tony Rudd walked back into the room, still as angry as when he had left.

  ‘You win, damn you. I won’t sell for two years, that I promise. But when those two years are up, on that day I sell to the highest bidder.’

  There was muffled applause from the table, but it stopped when Tony Rudd held up his hand.

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank Sonja Seyton-Waugh. I’m doing this for her, not for any of you. And I’m not doing it for the memory of my grandfather, either. This business is people and Sonja’s one of the best. Just make sure you keep her ahead of Jay Golden for chairmanship of the committee. As I’m sure you all know, this is my last year.’

  Tony Rudd smiled at Sonja and she beamed with satisfaction, then stood up to rousing applause.

  ‘Gentlemen, Mr Rudd has given us a chance, and we must capitalise on it. This meeting is over. Let us make sure that no one outside this room ever knows it took place . . .’

  At precisely 11 a.m. the following day, the official meeting of the members of the CMC took place. The doors of the main boardroom were closed and two armed guards stood outside. As it happened, the meeting turned out to be a relatively short one and ended just after two. The guards had noticed nothing particularly unusual happening inside the boardroom, just the usual bouts of shouting and table-banging.

  Two members of the CMC left the meeting looking more irritated than usual - in fact they appeared to be purple with rage. They charged through the doors, down the steps and into a waiting Rolls-Royce without bothering to say goodbye to anyone.

  ‘The first meeting we go to without the old man and it’s a complete fuck-up. They were ready for us.’ Jay was shaking with rage, he had wanted to attack Sonja Seyton-Waugh physically. ‘I can tell you, Bernard, when we have control they’ll suffer for this. Especially that bitch.’

  ‘She hates you with good cause. Don’t ever forget that.’ Older and more experienced, Bernard had suppressed his anger in the meeting, and Jay’s hot-headed behaviour had annoyed him; it reflected badly on the Goldcorp Group. In his pocket was an envelope that had been pushed into his hand by Tony Rudd as he left the meeting. He was confident about its contents and this considerably helped him to relax. The price had been high, but worth it.

  ‘In six months’ time, at the Kimberley meeting, we’ll have them eating out of the palms of our hands, Jay. We’ll have more power than all of them put together. We’ll contest Sonja Seyton- Waugh’s presidency and you’ll be elected in her place. I’ll make sure that your father is present at that meeting. It’ll be your crowning glory.’

  Short-lived glory, thought Bernard with a private sneer. He reached into his pocket and took out Rudd’s envelope. He opened it slowly, relishing the satisfaction its contents gave him.

  ‘Do you want to hear the best piece of news in the history of the Goldcorp Group, Jay?’ Bernard held up the letter, embossed with the Rudd group crest.

  ‘Is that the agreement fro
m Rudd to sell?’

  ‘Yes. Rudd told me he would give us his acceptance after today’s meeting. We offered him more than fifty per cent of what he’s worth, no one else could have done that, and he knows it.’

  ‘Let me read it.’

  Jay read slowly. Bernard noticed his breathing change. ‘Jesus. Do you think the fucker’s finally found out that we’ve been pumping his son full of drugs for the past five years!’

  Bernard tore the letter out of Jay’s trembling hands. He read it for himself: an outright refusal to sell. No, Tony Rudd couldn’t have known that they’d been supplying his son Robard with drugs; the connections they’d used had been the very best, and only a genius could have traced the payments back to Goldcorp. Bernard knew how desperate Rudd had been to sell. What in hell could have changed his mind?

  The letter explained that Rudd would sell in two years’ time to the highest bidder. That was bad news. By that time the gold price could have rocketed, and Rudd Exploration Company shares along with it. Bernard knew the Rudd Company owned important mining rights that they had not exploited on the Far East Rand; Tony Rudd didn’t fully appreciate the value of these options, and he didn’t have enormous research facilities at his disposal, like Goldcorp. If he had, he would have known that those options were worth more than all his existing mines put together . . . But in two years’ time Tony Rudd probably would know. Then he would never sell for the price they were offering now.

  Bernard felt the bitterness in his stomach. He had put years of work into this deal - years ensuring that Tony Rudd did not have an heir.

  They had moved in on Robard Rudd stealthily. He had been a typical spoilt young man, with too much money and not enough wisdom. They discovered that he lived in a luxurious Paris apartment with a girlfriend, and the girlfriend had proved coop­erative. It hadn’t taken long. In fact after a short time the operation had actually become self-financing, for the moment Robard became a heroin addict he started to pay enormous amounts of money for the drug he craved. Fortunately he went overboard faster than they anticipated, and even the expensive clinics Tony had sent him to had not been able to cure him. If they wanted to, they could kill him now, in less than a week. Bernard knew he must resist the temptation to kill Robard off as revenge for Tony’s having held up the deal. It would be a dangerous coincidence - and it could get both Bernard and Jay into big trouble with Max Golden.