by Wilbur Smith
a brittle electric silence fell on the large room. the air was so thick with smoke, and the light from the suspended hurricane lamps so feeble, that it was impossible to see the far wall. the room was filled with men, forty or fifty of them, the smell of humanity and bad liquor was solid.
among this press of men were half a dozen bright spots of the girls" dresses, but with their curiosity aroused by the singing more girls were coming through from the inter leading doorways at the back, some of them had men with them and were still shrugging into their clothing.
when they saw big king and his warriors in full war kit, they fell silent and watchful.
at big king's shoulder one of his shangaans whispered: "basutos! they are all basutos!" he was right, big king saw that they were all men of that mountainous little independent state.
big king started forward, swaggering just enough to make his leopard tail kilt swing and swirl and the heron feathers of his head-dress rustle. he reached the primitive bar counter.
"flying bird," he told the crone who owned the house, and she placed a bottle of eagle brandy on the counter.
big king half filled a tumbler, conscious that every eye was on him, and drained it.
slowly he turned and surveyed the room.
"what is it he asked in a voice that carried to every corner, 'that sits on top of a mountain and scratches its fleas. is it a baboon, or a basuto?" a roar of delight went up from his shangaans.
"a basuto!" they shouted, crowding forward to the bar, while a growl and a mutter went up from the rest of the room.
"what is it," shouted a basuto jumping to his feet, "that has feathers on its head and crows from a dung heap is it a rooster, or a shangaan?"
without seeming to move, big king picked up the bottle of eagle brandy and hurled it. with a crack it burst against the basuto's forehead and he went over backwards taking two of his companions with him.
the old crone snatched up her cash register and ran as the room exploded into violent movement.
there was not enough space in which to use the fighting sticks, big king realized, so he lifted a section of the bar counter off its trestles and, holding it in front of him like the blade of a bulldozer, he charged across the room, flattening all and everything before him.
the crash of breaking furniture and the yelp and squeal of men being struck down drove big king beyond the frontiers of sanity into the red atavistic fury of the berserker.
basuto is also one of the fighting tribes of the n'gum group. these wiry mountaineers rushed into the conflict with the same savage joy as the shangaans, a conflict that raged and roared out of the single room to engulf the entire population of dump city.
one of the girls, her dress ripped from her back so she was left with only a tattered pair of bloomers, had climbed on top of the remains of the bar counter from where, with her big melon breasts swinging in the lamp light, she shrilled that peculiar ululation that bantu women used to goad their menfolk into battle frenzy. a dozen of the other girls joined in, trilling, squealing, and the sound was too much for big king.
with the bar top held ahead of him he charged straight through the flimsy wall of the shack, bursting it open like a paper bag. the roof sagged down wearily, and big king raged on unchecked down the narrow dirt street, striking down any man who crossed his path, scattering chickens and yelping dogs, roaring like a bull gorilla.
he turned at the end of the encampment and came back, his frustration mounting as he found the street deserted except for a few prostrate bodies; through the gaping hole in the wall he entered the shebeen once more to find that here also the fighting had died down. a few of the participants were crawling, or moaning as they lay on the carpet of broken glass.
big king glared about him, seeking a further outlet for his wrath.
"king nkulu!" the girl was still on the trestle table, her eyes bright with excitement, her legs trembling with it.
big king let out another roar, and hurled the bar top from him. it clattered against the far wall and big king started towards her.
"you are a lion!" she shrieked encouragement at him, and she took one of her big black velvety breasts in each hand and pointed them at him, squeezing them together, shaking with excitement.
"eat me!" she screamed, as big king swept her off the table and, lifting her high, ran with her out into the night.
carrying her into the scrub below the mine dumps, holding her easily with one arm, ripping the leopard-tail kilt from his own waist as he ran.
it was saturday night in paris also, but there were men who were still working, for there were lights burning in the upstairs rooms of one of the big embassies in the rue royale.
the fat man who had been the host in the gambling establishment in johannesburg was now the guest. he sat at ease in a leather club easy chair, his corpulence and the steel grey hair at his temples giving him dignity. his face heavy, tanned, intelligent. his eyes glittery and hard as the diamond on his finger.
he was listening intently to a man of about the same age as himself who stood before a projected image on a screen that covered one wall of the room. there was that in the man's bearing and manner that marked him as a scholar, he was speaking now, addressing himself directly to the listener in the easy chair, pointing with a marker to the screen beside him.
"you see here a plan of the working of the five producing gold mines of the kitchenerville fields in relation to each other." he touched the screen with the marker. "thornfontein, blaauberg, tweefontein, deep gold levels and sander ditch." the man in the chair nodded. "i have seen and studied this diagram before."
"good, then you will know that the sander ditch property sits in the centre of the field. it has common boundaries with the other four mines and here," he tapped the screen again, "it is intersected by the massive serpentine dyke which they call the big dipper." again the fat man nodded.
"it is for these reasons we have selected the sander ditch as the trigger point." the lecturer touched a button on the wall panel and the image on the screen changed.
"now, here is something you have not seen before." the man in the chair crouched forward.
"what is it?"
"it is an underground map based on the borehole results of the five companies who have been exploring the ground to the east of the big dipper. these results have been pooled and interpreted by some of the finest brains in the fields of geology and hydra physics. you have here a carefully considered representation of exactly what lies on the far side of the big dipper fault." the big man moved uncomfortably in his chair.
"it's a monster!"
"yes, a monster. lying just beyond the fault is an underground lake, no, that is not the correct word. let us call it an underground sea, the size of, say, lake eyrie. the water is held in a vast sponge of porous dolomite rock."
"my god." for the first time the fat man had lost his poise. "if this is right, why don't the mining companies arrive at the same conclusion and keep well away from it?"
"because," the lecturer switched off the image and the overhead lights came on, "because of their highly competitive attitude none of them has access to the findings of the others. it is only when all the results are studied that the picture becomes clear."
"how did your government come to be in possession of all the results?" demanded the fat man.
"that is not important." the lecturer was brusque, impatient of the interruption. "we are also in possession of the findings of a certain doctor peter wessels who is at present head of a research team in rock mechanics based on the sander ditch mine property. it is company classified information and consists of a paper that doctor peter wessels has written on the shatter patterns and stresses of rock. his researches are directly related to the ventersdorp quartzites which comprise the country rock of the sander ditch workings." the lecturer picked up a pamphlet from his desk.
"i will not weary you by asking you to wade through its highly technical findings. instead i will give it to you in cap
sule form. doctor wessels arrives at the conclusion that a column of ventersdorp quartzite 120 feet thick would shatter under a side pressure of 4,000 pounds per square inch." the lecturer dropped the pamphlet back on the desk. "as you know, by law, the gold mining companies are bound to leave a barrier of solid rock 120 feet thick along their boundaries.
that is all that separates one mine's working from another, just that wall of rock. you understand?"
"of course. it is very simple." "simple? yes, it is simple! this doctor steyner, over whom you have control, will instruct the new general manager of the sander ditch to drive a tunnel through the big dipper dyke. the drive will puncture the vast underground reservoir and the water will run back and flood the entire sander ditch workings. once they are flooded, the pressure delivered by a 6,000-foot head of water at the lower levels will be in excess of 4,000 pounds per square inch.
that is sufficient to burst the rock walls, and flood the thomfonrein, the blaauberg, deep gold levels and tweefontein gold mines."
"the entire kitchenerville gold fields would be effectively and permanently put out of production. the consequences for the economy of the republic of south africa would be catastrophic." the fat man was visibly shaken.
"why do you want to do it?" he asked, shaking his head in awe.
"my colleague here," the lecturer indicated a man who was sitting quietly in one corner, "will explain that to you presently."
"but people!" the fat man protested. "there will be people down there when it bursts, thousands of them." the lecturer smiled, raising one eyebrow. "if i were to tell you that six thousand men would drown, would you refuse to proceed, and forfeit the million-dollar payment my government has offered you?" the fat man looked down, embarrassed, and muttered barely audibly, "no." the lecturer chuckled. ""good! good!
however, you may salve you aching conscience by assuring yourself that we do not expect more than forty or fifty fatalities from the flooding.
naturally, those men actually working on the face will be killed. but that tremendous volume of water under immense pressure should make it a merciful death. for the rest of them, the mine can be evacuated swiftly enough to allow them excellent chances of survival. the surrounding mines will have days to evacuate before the water pressure builds up sufficiently to burst through the boundary walls." there was silence then in the room for nearly a minute.
"have you any questions?" the fat man shook his head.
"very well, in that case i will leave it to my colleague to complete the briefing he will explain the necessity for this operation, will arrange the terms of payment and conditions upon which you will proceed." the lecturer gathered up the pamphlet and other papers from the desk. "it remains only for me to wish you good luck." he chuckled again and left the room quickly.
the little man, who up until now had remained silent, suddenly bounced out of his chair and began pacing up and down the wall-to-wall carpeting. he spoke rapidly, shooting occasional sideways glances at his audience, his bald head shining in the fluorescent lighting, wriggling his mustache like rabbit whiskers, puffing nervously at his cigarette.
"reasons first. i'll make it short and sweet, right? the south africans and the frogs have got together. they're here in paris now cooking up mischief. we know what they're up to, they're going to launch an all-out attack on my government's currency. gold price increase, you know.
very complicated and very nasty for us, right? they might just be able to do it, south africa is the world's biggest gold producer. with the frogs helping her, they might just be able to force an increase." he stopped in front of the fat man and thrust out an accusing finger.
"are we going to sit back and let them have a free run?
no, sir! we are going to throw down our own curve ball!
in three months time the syndicate will be ready to attack.
at that precise moment we will kick the chair out from under the south africans by cutting their gold production in half. we will flood the kitchenerville gold fields and the attack will fizzle out like a damp squib, right?" "as simple as that?" asked the fat man.
"as simple as that!" the bald head nodded vigorously.
"now, my next duty is to make clear to you that the agreed million dollars is all the reward you receive. neither you nor your agents may indulge in any financial transactions that might, in retrospect, show that this was a planned operation, right?"
"right. "the fat man nodded.
"you give your assurance that you will not deal in any of the shares of the companies involved?"
"you have my solemn word." the fat man told him earnestly, and not for the first time in his life reflected how easily and painlessly a promise could be given.
with the assistance of the three men who had watched manfred steyner that night at the gambling club in johannesburg, he intended launching a bear offensive on the stock exchanges of the world.
on the day that they drilled into the big dipper dyke he and his partners would sell millions of the shares of the five mining companies for one of the biggest financial killings in the history of money.
"we are agreed then." the bald head bobbed. "now, as for this doctor steyner, we have had a screening and personality analysis and we believe that, despite the secure hold you have on his loyalties, he would jib at giving the order to drive on the big dipper if he were aware of the consequences. therefore we have prepared a second geological report," he produced, from his brief case a thick manila folder, "incorporating those figures which he will recognize.
in other words the drilling results of the crc exploration teams, but the other figures are fictitious. this report purports to prove the existence of a fabulously rich gold reef beyond the fault." he crossed to the fat man and handed him the folder. "take it. it will help you convince doctor steyner, and he in turn to convince the new general manager of the sander ditch gold mine."
"you have been thorough," said the fat man.
"we try to give a satisfactory service to our customers, said the bald man.
the game was five-card stud poker, and there were two big winners at the table, manfred steyner and the algerian.
manfred had timed his arrival in paris to ensure himself an uninterrupted weekend before the rest of the delegates came in on the monday morning flight.
he had checked in at the hotel george cinq on saturday afternoon, battled and rested for three hours until eight in the evening, then he had set out for the club chat noir by taxi.
he had been playing now for five hours, and a steady succession of strong cards had pushed his winnings up to a formidable sum. it lay piled in front of him, a fruit salad of garish french bank notes.
across the table sat the algerian, a slim dark-skinned arab with toffee eyes and a silky black mustache. his teeth were very white against the creamy brown skin. he wore a turtle-neck shirt in pink silk, and a linen jacket of baby blue. with long brown fingers he kept smoothing and stacking his own pile of bank notes.
a girl sat on the arm of his chair, an arab girl in a skintight gold trouser suit. her hair was shiny black and hung onto her shoulders, her eyes were disconcertingly level as she watched manfred.
"ten thousand." manfred's voice was explosive, like that of a teutonic drillmaster. he was betting on his fourth card which had just been dealt to him. he and the algerian were the remaining players in the game. the others had folded their hands and were sitting back watching with the casual interest of men no longer involved.
the algerian's eyes narrowed slightly and the girl leaned down to whisper softly in his ear. he shook his head, annoyed, and drew on his cigarette. he had a pair of queens and a six showing and he leaned forward to study manfred's cards.
