Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  Right now, Bernard had other problems to solve, and one was sitting right next to him.

  ‘Jay, you know what happens if you don’t become chairman of the CMC in the next two years?’

  ‘Only too well. My father won’t pass the Goldcorp Group into my hands because I’ll have failed the test he set me. My step­brother Ludwig will get control.’

  This scenario was familiar to Bernard. Ludwig Golden was the product of Max Golden’s second marriage to Laura. As his first wife, Jay’s mother, lay dying, he had promised that the company would go to her son - but Max Golden was no fool, and he had added a proviso that her son should prove worthy of the task. Ludwig Golden, the son of his second marriage, was a self-made multi-millionaire at the age of twenty-eight. Bernard knew that if Ludwig took over the Goldcorp Group, he, Bernard Aschaar, was finished.

  ‘As I see it, we have only one option remaining to us.’

  ‘To acquire Sonja Seyton-Waugh’s Waugh Mining?’

  ‘Exactly. To force that bitch to sell out to us. We could do it. The only problem is that she seems to be resisting our blackmail campaign. If she’s the one who’s got her hands on those photo­graphs, she might be tempted to nail you - she could put you away with that evidence. Provided she had the guts to use it, of course. She’d never admit to the public what you did to her. We know she’s never told anyone about it. I think we can deal our ace.’

  ‘Our ace?’

  ‘The other photographs we took that night, Jay. The ones where you forced her to pose on her own.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about them!’

  ‘They weren’t stolen from the safe, they were in another file.

  We could suggest she sell, or that we’ll send a couple of glossy prints to Lord.’

  Jay laughed, and Bernard began to relax again. The plan could work. Lord was a man’s magazine that revelled in getting wealthy and famous women to take their clothes off.

  ‘Bernard, you’re a genius. But first we have to get the other film and photos back. We can’t go ahead till we’ve got those.’

  ‘We proceed as follows. Through our other companies we buy aggressively into the stock of all the companies and mines belonging to Waugh Mining. Finance won’t be a problem, we can use the funds we had earmarked for the Rudd acquisition.

  ‘When we get the film and pictures back, we use a third party to blackmail Sonja Seyton-Waugh, and she hands over ten per cent of her fifty-one per cent controlling stock. She won’t know it’s us, and she won’t know that we’ve bought up all her other stock. Then we move in and fire her as chairwoman, and install you in her place.’

  ‘Bernard, you’re a genius.’

  The atmosphere was electric. The intimidating power emanated from a single source, the silver-haired man whose head rested on the white desk top, as if he had suddenly fallen asleep.

  Bernard and Jay sat facing the desk, a discreet distance away. Looking down through the window they could see the mine dumps, and queues of cars heading through the early morning sunshine, towards the centre of Johannesburg. Neither of them spoke, for that was the unwritten rule.

  An immaculately dressed butler came into the room and served them all coffee. He didn’t have to ask who wanted what because he had known each of the men for so long. That was why he was paid more than many company directors - his life had been dedicated to the service of the man whose head lay on the desk, in the enormous top-floor office suite of the Goldcorp Group.

  Having put down the paper-thin white porcelain cups, the butler left the room as quietly as he had entered. Just as he was about to disappear through the door he heard the familiar voice of his employer.

  ‘Thank you, Raleigh. We are not to be interrupted on any account.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The butler closed the door behind him and wondered, not for the first time, if his employer was psychic. It had become a sort of game between them both: Raleigh would often come into the office to adjust a piece of furniture, tidy up or deliver some correspondence, while his master was asleep - but he had never yet been able to leave the room undetected, and he could swear that he had never seen the man open his eyes.

  The silver grey locks rose up from the desk and for a brief moment Jay and Bernard glimpsed the face beneath them before Max Golden got up and walked over to the giant plate-glass window. Sunlight caught the side of his heavily lined face. People said that Max Golden was Jewish, but that was only part of the truth. His ancestors had been Cossacks and had ridden in the Czar’s cavalry; he himself still rode every day - his only relaxa­tion. The two men seated behind him admired the straightness of his back, the ease with which he moved, even though he was over seventy.

  Without warning he turned to face them. His brilliant blue eyes surveyed them cursorily, reading their feelings exactly.

  ‘My decision is not negotiable. It was reached because of your singular incompetence, Jay, and nothing that has happened since

  • least of all the events of the last couple of days - has persuaded me that my original assessment of you was inaccurate.’

  He walked back to the table, sat on its edge and stared down stonily at his son.

  ‘You have failed me. That meeting was your chance. Mistakenly, I thought you could handle it - I will not ask you why you neglected to tie up all the details. Obviously there was a secret meeting of the other members beforehand, and your move was blocked. Why were you not aware of this meeting? It was an obvious blocking move - you should have suspected it, taken precautions against it. There was nothing in your mother that indicated failure, she never compromised, not even in death. I cannot believe that you are my son.

  ‘So now you have just two years left before Ludwig takes control of the group - and twenty-four months from this day to undo what you have done so far. Bernard has outlined the details of your strategy. A good plan, but one that will take nerve and intelligence to carry out.’

  There was a moment of silence while Jay summoned up enough courage to address his father.

  ‘What will happen to me if Ludwig takes over, sir?’

  ‘If I were Ludwig I would have you fired immediately. You will receive no support from me after that. You must find your own way.’

  Jay went red in the face. He could not understand his father sometimes. The man had the ability to cut himself off from any emotion, to fill his heart with ice.

  ‘And if I were you, Bernard, I would begin separating yourself from Jay and consider offering your services to Ludwig. That’s if you’re thinking of survival.’

  Max Golden moved easily back to his desk. He sat down behind it and stared at Jay coldly.

  ‘A word of warning to you. Ruthlessness is the only way to succeed - but you must remember that to enjoy ruthlessness is death. You must aim only for success. You see, when you enjoy doing something, you get careless. You make mistakes.’

  He got up again and stared out of the window. The two were unsure if the meeting was now over.

  ‘Father, how was I to know they would fix the meeting?’

  ‘Shut up and get out. And don’t call me father, it’s an insult. Get out, Jay, before I throw you out.’

  Max Golden did not turn round till both Jay and Bernard had left the room. Then he sat down again at his desk and pulled out a large file. He smiled. Jay and Bernard - nothing like playing both ends against the middle! It was fun to watch the manoeuvering as each tried to score over the other, fun to twitch the threads and watch them dance. Jay would put up a good fight, but he’d bet on Bernard Aschaar any day of the week - the man was as clever as a cartload of monkeys. How could they ever believe he would hand the company over to Ludwig!

  The forest was very beautiful. She could not remember ever having been in a forest of trees that were so full and green - but then she had never been to England before. She walked barefoot in the cool, early morning dew and felt as if an immense burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The people at the clinic only wanted her to be happy, to re
cover.

  For the first few days she had been suicidal. She’d tried to slash her wrists because they wouldn’t give her the drug she craved, and they’d had to bind her down. That period had passed as dramatically as it had come, and now she was a child again - except for some memories that she tried to tuck into a far corner of her mind. She did not think of men at all. That would come later, but she was in no hurry for she knew that with the first physical contact there would come fear.

  She would have a visitor, they had said, a beautiful woman like herself. Someone very understanding, a good friend.

  She knew her relaxed state was because of the pills. The doctor had gone to great pains to explain to her the withdrawal symptoms and the need to recover as quickly as possible. She often asked them about the man who had rescued her from the flat, the man who had held Sidney against the wall and slowly broken his ribs while she screamed. They always looked at her blankly and said they didn’t know about that, but she knew that she should thank this man who had rescued her, and that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  She dreamed very often, more than she had ever done before. A long dark river appeared again and again in her dreams; she would be lying by the bank and a tall man with dark blond hair in a brilliant white suit would come along in a boat. She would get into it with him and they would smile at each other. With him there was always great peace, and his strong arms would move the oars effortlessly through the deep green waters.

  Last night in the dream, the boat had turned over when they saw a friend, and he jumped into the river when they fell in the water. This man swam out to her and took her gently to the river bank. Then he went to find the man in the white suit but he had been swept away. This man then returned to the bank and wept on her shoulder. She felt removed from him, she wanted the man in the white suit to return, for she couldn’t believe that he had disappeared beneath the dark green waters . . .

  The woman she was waiting for appeared by one of the oak trees and waved to her. She ran over, and was surprised by the woman’s incredible beauty. The woman kissed her gently on the cheek and took her hand. Though she was very beautiful, she talked in a voice that hinted at great power and authority.

  ‘Helen. I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. I know what you’ve been through.’

  Helen drew back. She did not want the memories to be unlocked from the corner of her mind where she was keeping them.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, Helen. My name is Sonja. You can stay here for as long as you like. I want you to get fit and strong again.’

  Sonja was torn by a terrible dilemma. Helen must have infor­mation that could be used as evidence against Jay and Bernard, but Sonja knew that Jay had almost destroyed Helen, and that any questions at this stage would push Helen back towards the abyss of madness. She would have to be patient; the doctor had told her of the risks and warned her against proceeding too quickly. First Sonja would have to establish a bond between herself and Helen. The doctor said that once that feeling of trust had been established, it would actually be good for Helen to talk about her experience; if she didn’t talk about it, he warned, she might retreat inside herself for ever. There was hope, but she was hanging onto sanity by a slender thread. One wrong move and the umbilical cord with reality would be severed for ever.

  The discussion with the doctor had fuelled Sonja’s hatred for the Goldcorp Group. How many lives had these ruthless men ruined? How many countries would they destroy in their mania­cal quest for absolute power? Money they had aplenty, but it was nothing to them. They had to have power. She was determined to smash that power, to humiliate them as they had humiliated her and Helen and countless others.

  She continually thought about Deon de Wet, the policeman who had come into her life so unexpectedly and given her renewed courage. There was something about him that stirred her soul. Beneath this man’s rugged exterior she was aware of a sensitivity, a basic goodness that she had rarely encountered in any man. There was something deeply reassuring about him. She wanted to see him again, soon.

  Deon and Bernard

  Dr Jerry Odendal got the call just as he returned home from an evening out with his wife. He had had the usual two bottles of wine to drink and was feeling very pleased with life. At fifty years of age he really had nothing to complain about; since his appointment as district surgeon some twenty years earlier he had made a steady, easy living, and apart from the examination of rape victims, his job was pleasant and undemanding.

  When the phone rang, he decided to ignore it - if they wanted a doctor to do a blood test on a drunken driver at this time of night, they could find someone else. But the phone did not give up ringing and his wife insisted that he answer the call. He felt thoroughly irritated. All he wanted to do was sleep.

  ‘Jerry, it’s General Piet Muller here. I need you down at the station urgently.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Piet, it’s after one. Can’t it wait till the morning?’ ‘Someone’s died in detention.’

  ‘So, get Travis, he’s really keen.’

  ‘Jerry, this is a difficult situation. I don’t need Travis around, he’s another of those bloody liberals. I want you on this.’

  ‘All right, I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.’

  He slammed the phone down, glared at his wife and walked out of the house to his car. He was in General Muller’s debt and now the payment was due.

  The main police station was a blaze of lights when he got there, and he wondered how much of the taxpayers’ money went on the electricity used in government buildings. The young man at the charge desk gave him a surly look and carried on paging through a magazine full of photographs of scantily clad women. Dr Odendal coughed loudly to get some attention and was again ignored.

  ‘Get me General Muller or I’ll make sure he gets to hear about your attitude.’

  The young man was on his feet in seconds and staring earnestly into his face with dumb grey-blue eyes. ‘Sorry, sir, who shall I say it is?’

  ‘Dr Odendal.’

  The young man dialled a number on the telephone and there followed a very terse conversation.

  ‘Sir, if you could make your way to the lifts, General Muller will be waiting for you on the sixth floor.’

  The lift arrived on the sixth floor without stopping and Dr Odendal looked straight into General Muller’s eyes as the doors opened. Something was seriously wrong - he looked haggard, and the usual aura of confidence was missing.

  ‘I think it would be best if we went to my office. I hope you’ve brought whatever you need for an examination with you?’

  ‘Of course. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine once we’ve got this mess sorted out.’

  General Muller’s office was spartan, and dominated by the South African flag which hung from a pole in one corner. The doctor did not like flags indoors, he felt they signified bad luck, like an open umbrella. He seated himself on one of the uncomfortable chairs next to the desk. The General sat down too, and pulled out a bottle of whisky from one of the desk drawers. Dr Odendal declined the offer of a drink since he was already concerned about how much alcohol he had consumed that evening, but the General poured himself a very generous glassful. After taking a hefty slug he put his arms behind his head and stared at the doctor.

  ‘We live in troubled times, Jerry. The pressure on this country gets greater every day, and we fight a hard war trying to keep communist elements out of our fair land. A day ago we brought in a suspected communist sympathiser for questioning, a routine inquiry. Now, unfortunately, I have a problem on my hands. The man has died in his cell, the fool fell over and the fall killed him. You can imagine my difficulty. You remember the lies that were spread around a few years ago about suspects jumping from the windows in this building - malicious lies concocted by our enemies in the press? Well, I have reason to believe that these people will try to get mileage out of this man who’s died in detention. So I want you to examine his body and get
the facts straight.’

  Dr Odendal felt himself shaking. The price Muller was asking was high, perhaps too high. True, the General had helped him get off a negligence charge that could have wrecked his private practice, and he had also got him his present job ... He understood in an instant what it was the General wanted of him.

  ‘And if I find evidence that the man did not die from the fall? That he might have died from some other cause?’

  ‘You won’t find such evidence.’

  ‘And if there’s a coroner’s enquiry?’

  ‘There will be no coroner’s enquiry, I guarantee you. But there is an additional problem. I have an adversary, a man who could jeopardise my future, and he’s downstairs now, looking after - I mean, watching over - the body of the man I want you to examine. He will ask you questions and you must give him the correct answers. He’ll say things have happened to this man, even though you and I know it isn’t true. You must convince him that he is mistaken.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t believe me?’

  ‘You owe me, Jerry. He will believe you, I’ve seen you in action. If any man can do it, you can. Just don’t mention to him that you know me. But I want you to note whatever he says about me. I want to know.’

  ‘Piet, I just don’t know about this.’

  ‘Those charges against you, I had them dropped. They can be brought up again, you could lose your job, your pension. Your son could be found in possession of Mandrax tablets, your daughter could be found to have communist literature. You’ve got no choice, Jerry. Ask for basement three, cell number sixteen. And if you mess up, forget you had a future.’