In London Jay would be completing negotiations on the purchase of a large office property in the heart of the City - the new headquarters of the Goldcorp Group. Even though British taxes were prohibitive, it was worth the move; in London they’d be able to distance themselves from the South African government, and better position themselves for the transfer of power when it finally came.
Bernard smiled to himself as he imagined the expression that would appear on certain South African faces if it was known that he was shortly to meet a man who was not only a vehement Marxist, but also dedicated to the downfall of the South African government.
For a moment, too, Bernard thought about the problem of Jay and the woman. What was her name again - Helen? It had been stupid, the sort of boy’s prank that got one into big trouble. They had far too many enemies to make that sort of mistake comfortably. That was where the old man had always been right. You killed or you were killed.
He intended to prove Max Golden correct. It wasn’t going to be long before Max handed over control to Jay, and then Bernard would make his move. The control he had always wanted would be his; the Goldens would be past tense.
Bernard sauntered down the stairs into the garden. As he did so, he carefully moved his hand up behind his back, as if to scratch between his shoulder blades, and felt the familiar form of the thin throwing-knife that hung between them. He never took chances.
He spoke to one of the servants, telling him he was going for a walk on the beach and did not want to be disturbed. The servant bowed obsequiously and disappeared inside the villa. Strange, thought Bernard, how even after independence most men preferred to serve others rather than to be masters of their own fate. He ambled towards the beach through the flowerbeds, his eyes constantly scanning the area around him.
The servant to whom he had spoken watched him fearfully through the folds of curtaining in the lounge. The big man moved like a cat, the thick, black curly hair of his enormous head partially obscuring the powerful face. Bernard turned round, sensing that he was being watched, and the servant disappeared quickly behind the curtains.
Once he was on the beach, Bernard relaxed. There was no one about - the area round the villa was heavily guarded, and anyone who dared to trespass was savagely beaten up. He could not fault the General on his security arrangements, they were impeccable. He continued along the beach for some five minutes until he came to a path that branched off through trees. Looking behind him again, to make sure that he wasn’t being followed, he disappeared into the trees. He walked on through thick vegetation until suddenly he was at the perimeter fence. As promised, there were no guards here, and a black man in combat uniform was waiting for him with a four-wheel-drive vehicle.
This man gestured for Bernard to get into the passenger seat and then blindfolded him. They drove in silence for about ten minutes, then Bernard’s eyes were uncovered.
They were parked outside an elegant country house. A short green lawn led up from the drive to a line of imposing Roman pillars that formed the front of the building. Bernard was glad the meeting had been set up in this secluded place. He was without any protection yet he enjoyed the danger.
As he approached the dark green door with the gold handle, he slowed his pace. There appeared to be no one about. Perhaps they had let him down? There was always that risk.
As he came up to the door, it opened to reveal an enormous black man in military uniform with no rank badges visible. Bernard walked cautiously through the door into the white-tiled reception area.
‘Mr Aschaar . . .’
The moment the man spoke, Bernard’s impression of him changed. The voice was clear and cultivated; this was no ordinary soldier.
‘. . . you will have to wait some time. He is deep in discussion. He apologises for your having to wait and informs me that if you are angry another time for a meeting can be arranged.’
If he had been in Johannesburg or any of the world’s industrial capitals, Bernard would have got up and left, but not here. He sat down on one of the Edwardian chairs and picked up a copy of Time magazine.
Leafing through it, he was not surprised to see a picture of himself in the financial section, and talk of a large-scale takeover by the Goldcorp Group within the South African mining industry. He turned the pages, not wanting to clutter his mind with those problems before his crucial meeting.
He moved to the social pages and listlessly read through an article on Penelope O’Keefe, the film star, and had nearly finished it when he realised that she was the daughter of one of his arch rivals. He remembered trying to have her kidnapped and before that, attempting to bring down the plane she was flying in. The death of Sir George’s daughter would surely have destroyed him and made his mines vulnerable to a takeover bid from Goldcorp. She was spectacularly beautiful and he felt bitter, remembering Marisa his wife . . . There was still the anger inside him. She had demanded he have those tests, and he had learned that he would never be able to father a child.
It was true that they could have implanted some of his semen in her body, but already their relationship was doomed. He had seen the contempt in her eyes - contempt for him, Bernard Aschaar, because he could never father a child properly. The bitch! She had always known how to attack him where he was most vulnerable, and now she had at her command the perfect, devastating weapon. One night after they had made love and she had criticised his performance, he had beaten her up.
She almost wanted that - to see him lose control. But she had thought he would stop and he didn’t, he carried on till she couldn’t scream any more. They had taken her to hospital, and a plastic surgeon had had to fix her face.
He visited her in hospital the next day, her face blue and covered with bruises. She had laughed at him, called him a common thug. He could see the look of contempt on the faces of the doctor and the nurses.
Now she lived independently, continuing to harass him. There were things in his past she knew about. Things he wanted no one else to know . . .
‘Mr Aschaar, Mr Aschaar.’ The voice intruded upon his unpleasant memories. ‘You can go through now, he is ready.’
In the room beyond, the curtains were closed and the lighting was subdued. A man sat hunched over a bare table. His head was hidden in his arms and he did not get up at the sound of Bernard’s entry, but spoke from that position.
‘Mr Aschaar, I must state now that I both despise and respect you. You have much that I want. I know of your dealings with other black politicians, that you never give anything away, but you do set up factories and provide work - though I am sure those things are of peripheral interest to you.’
He lifted his head and stared at Bernard. ‘What is it that you are offering me, Mr Aschaar?’ Behind the thick lenses of the spectacles, the black eyes watching him were very much alive. Bernard felt that this man was quite similar to himself. He decided to be straight. He wasn’t sure how much this man knew of his dealings with Zambia, Kenya and Angola.
‘Soon you will rule a country.’
‘That is not for certain. It could be Mr Nkomo, you could well be talking to the wrong man.’
‘I never talk to the wrong man. I know from my informants that in a fair election you will sweep the board. I also know that you are an intelligent and well-educated man. Your country is your life, you would not wish to see it descend to the condition of Mozambique. You need power to succeed in your ambitions. Your next target must be South Africa.’
Bernard finished and waited. The man facing him did not say anything for some time, but eventually he spoke. His face had hardened and there was an irritated tone to his voice.
‘Firstly, I do not like people who put words in my mouth, though much of what you say is true. I am aware of the difficulties. I have already spoken to some people with far more power than you, Mr Aschaar, in fact I believe that you might even be allied to those people. Your guiding hand was apparent in the document General Vorotnikov handed to me at the end of the conference, was it not?
Is this now a double-cross?’
Bernard smiled evilly. ‘Suppose the Russians cannot assist you, what then?’
The man pushed back the glasses which had slid down his nose. ‘Then I will have little to do with them. I will make my own way.’
‘Exactly. This meeting is merely to discuss arrangements if that situation should arise. My company, the Goldcorp Group, would be able to help you to press ahead with the developments you wanted to continue. We would provide extra capital.’
The man looked at him cynically. ‘Exactly as you have already described in your document?’
‘No, not exactly. You would be able to hang onto more whites, and the governments of the West would feel far more kindly disposed to your new regime. The developments could take place a lot faster.’
‘You are advocating that we should not continue with the invasion plan?’
Bernard raised his eyebrows and moved forward, resting his hands on his thighs, his voice now almost a whisper.
‘Far from it. I am merely saying what could be done if the invasion plan should not succeed.’
‘Covering all your options, Mr Aschaar?’
‘There is only one option I wish to cover, which is that I should get the principal mining rights in your new country. That is my only interest in this matter. The more mines my group controls, the more power we have to influence world pricing.’
The man laughed maliciously. ‘You get all the control and we take a small cut?’
Bernard leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Hardly. You don’t have to concern yourself with the running of large mines. You can charge taxes on these industries as well as getting a percentage of the profits. Who else will run those mines for you?’
‘The Russians. They have the technology.’
Bernard got up and paced over to the window. He looked away from the man seated at the table.
‘Yes, that is true. However, I think you know better than I do the high cost of such expertise. I have no interest in wrecking your country for profit. You might be surprised to know that I hate any form of anarchy. As a capitalist, I am appalled by waste.’
‘Industrial waste, of course, Mr Aschaar, not human waste.’ Aschaar turned from the window and stared coldly at the man. ‘One learns to be cynical about the value of life in Africa.’
The black man smashed his fist hard onto the desk in front of him. Bernard didn’t flinch. He waited for the man to break the silence.
‘I do not find your clever comments in the least amusing, Mr Aschaar.’
‘Experience has been my teacher. I took a gamble when I came to you - but I can promise you that there will be no gamble for you if you come to me. You need me. You have nothing behind you but the most protracted and unsuccessful guerilla war in recent history.’
The man rested his clenched fists on the table in front of him and glared at Bernard.
‘They say that you are a bastard, Mr Aschaar, and I can only agree with them. Your logic is faultless, you are loyal only to opportunity. I agree to do this deal with you, but only on the strict condition that you do not overstep the limit. Then I will reserve the right to expropriate all your mines.’
‘I have your word that what we have discussed will not go beyond these four walls?’
‘This conversation has been far more dangerous for me than for you, Mr Aschaar. Naturally I do not think General Vorotnikov would be happy if he found out about it, but then it is not in my interest to tell him.’
‘I trust you. I would suggest a period of one year at the most to phase in the new operating rules and the new personnel.’
‘Just do not forget who will be in control, that is all I ask of you. Now . . . Please, I have much to arrange. I will see you again when this is all over.’
They shook hands, looking into each other’s eyes one final time.
Bernard left the room and returned to the jeep where he was again blindfolded for the return journey. Only when he was back on the beach did a smile creep onto his face. It had gone much better than he had expected. The man was no fool, and it had been a good decision to meet him, well worth the risk of Vorotnikov finding out. The prize was just too big to let slip through his fingers. Of course there would be others who would approach Mugabe, but none of them could match Bernard’s expertise when it came to the mining industry.
Now he must get out of Beira as soon as possible. His plane wasn’t scheduled to leave until Sunday afternoon, but he couldn’t move the date forward without attracting undue attention.
Tomorrow, Friday, he would visit the bank again and go over his affairs. Tonight he would have dinner with the General.
Robert Mugabe waited until Aschaar had left the room. Then he walked over to the cabinet in the corner next to the window and lifted its lid. Inside, the two large reels of a tape recorder turned slowly round.
He pushed the stop switch and they ceased moving. Then he rewound the tape and played it back. Only after he had heard the entire conversation again was he satisfied.
As he was listening another man had come into the room. When the playback had finished Robert Mugabe said, ‘It is the best I could have hoped for. He will drive a hard bargain but we need his expertise. I have more faith in him than in Vorotnikov. The Russians are too hungry.’
‘We must be careful, Robert, very careful.’
Jay left the woman’s flat at about nine-thirty that morning. There was a continuous drizzle and he dashed across the road, hailing a cab.
‘Round House, The Boltons, South Kensington.’
He ignored the cab driver’s good-natured banter and stared out at the rain. It had been a good night, but he wouldn’t see her again, despite all the promises he had made the previous evening. Jay always prided himself on the detachment he could bring to his relationships with women. Hyde Park flashed past on his right and he checked his watch. Twenty to ten. There was plenty of time.
By the time the cab pulled up outside the imposing residence that dominated The Boltons, the rain was pouring down. A butler ran down from the entrance, holding an umbrella; he paid the cab driver, then opened the cab door for Jay. In the entrance hall he took off Jay’s raincoat and showed him into the drawing room. ‘He will be ready for you at ten, sir.’
Jay picked up a copy of the Financial Times and turned to the share prices. He was pleased to see that the Goldcorp Group was as strong as ever. As anticipated, the shares of Waugh Mining were rising, but this would not deter Goldcorp, they would continue buying through third parties.
He looked up to see the butler staring across at him. ‘He will see you in the study, sir.’
Jay went through and knocked on the white double doors before entering. ‘Come in.’ The deep voice he knew so well growled from behind the panelling.
His father was dressed in white riding breeches, and his mane of white hair cascaded over a black hunting jacket. The brilliant blue eyes flashed as Jay entered the room.
‘Sit down.’
Jay walked over to the window seat and sat down. He looked idly round the room at the crowded shelves of books.
‘I am impressed with your performance, Jay. If you carry on like this, you will take control of the Group at the end of this year.’
Jay couldn’t resist letting a faint smile run across his lips. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And what is your decision on the other matter?’ Max Golden sat down behind the desk and pressed his fingers together, looking intently at Jay.
‘He’s in Mozambique at the moment, following up his plan to finance the Rhodesian revolution with the Russians . . .’
‘You have not answered my question, Jay.’
‘Patience, sir. On Bernard’s return I will tell him of your decision. This will naturally result in his implementing his plans for my downfall. I’ve discovered his new hiding place for the photographs and I’ll have them back before he can do a thing.’
‘Your previous attempt was deplorably ham-fisted. Bernard had to call
Muller in to sort things out. And now we have Major- General Deon de Wet on our backs.’
‘Correction. On Bernard’s back.’
‘Very good, Jay, very good. And Miss Seyton-Waugh?’
‘As she has refused to cooperate with us, the photographs of her will be released. Naturally she’ll be forced to step down from the CMC, and in the rumpus that follows I will take command. Tony Rudd will sell out when he realises that Sonja is a whore, and I’ll make sure his remaining son Robard dies of a drug overdose.’
‘And the policeman?’
‘De Wet will follow his brother to the grave. I think he can be assassinated by some black extremist.’
Max Golden got up and strode across the room. He pumped Jay’s hand warmly. ‘I’m proud of you. Aschaar was my final test for you.’
‘He’s finished.’
‘Don’t underestimate him, Jay.’
‘I’ve discovered his weak link. Marisa, his wife, has proved most cooperative. She has already borne me a son.’
Max Golden grimaced. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘Do you think Aschaar would have shown me any compassion?’
‘None.’
Sonja said goodbye to Helen and drove slowly back to her hotel. Her second visit had been worth it. She gripped the steering wheel very tightly. Already it had cost her all her strength to go against the blackmail threats from Goldcorp, and each day she dreaded the appearance of the photographs and the subsequent scandal. Only Deon gave her the courage to go on. Even now, in England, she knew she could rely on him.
Helen’s story had confirmed her fears. Bernard and Jay would stop at nothing to achieve their ends; she, Sonja, was just a pawn in a larger game.
Hyena Dawn Page 30
