‘Wassamatta, you a sissy, man?’
Greg took the comment personally. The ensuing fight took them back into the bar they had just been ejected from, via the window. People scattered, women screamed. Most of the inhabitants in the bar at that hour were men on home leave who were nearly as drunk as Richard and Greg. They were more than happy to join the fun. An American western-style punch-up followed, which flattened the bar and put half a dozen people into hospital.
Richard had bleeding knuckles, a split lip and a black eye. Greg was bleeding from a cut on his head, the result of a chair being smashed over him. One of his eyes had completely closed and he had a nick on his cheek from crashing through the window. Both men were having the time of their lives. They went looking for more trouble.
They were indulging in a bit of boyish trash can kicking when they spied the police station with a police car parked outside. Giggling foolishly and whispering in thunderous tones, they stalked the offending vehicle. It was unlocked. Greg opened the driver’s door, took the car out of gear and released the handbrake. Then, stumbling and falling and swearing a lot, they heaved the car until its momentum took over. Weaving against each other they watched in pure pleasure as the vehicle rolled down the hill, sideswiping five parked cars, until it crashed into a shop window. The crashing of glass and metal brought the policemen on duty into the street.
‘What happened, man?’ one of them asked. Richard and Greg were still leaning against each other, attempting to look innocent.
‘Car’s run away,’ Greg managed.
‘Naughty car,’ Richard said, trying to look wise as well.
‘Naughty bad car,’ Greg agreed.
Richard vomited suddenly, splashing the policeman’s shoes.
‘Oops.’
The policeman looked at his shoes. He looked at Richard and Greg and saw the battle-weary desperation, the tension and the fear etched into their faces. Then he looked at the police car leaning drunkenly inside the shop window, festooned with ladies’ underwear. ‘Come with me,’ he said kindly.
They were slammed into a cell and the door firmly locked. ‘Try not to be sick again,’ the policeman advised. ‘The cleaners don’t like it.’ Then he added mildly, ‘I’m not terribly fond of it, either.’
For the remainder of the night they had serenaded the other occupants of the police station with renditions of songs which ranged from ‘Charlotte The Harlot’ to ‘My Old Man’s A Dustman’. Richard thought he had done extremely well when he remembered all the words of ‘Will Ye Stop Your Tickling, Jock’. Entreaties to shut up were ignored. They finally fell into a drunken stupor around four in the morning.
They were shaken awake at 8.30, given strong cups of black coffee, and released with no fine. The policeman from the night before was still on duty. Richard tried to thank him.
‘It’s okay, man,’ the policeman said. ‘We know what you go through.’ Then he added, ‘My CO is a bit put out about the car. I’d leave now if I were you.’
They were back with their unit in record time.
‘I’ve met that CO recently,’ Greg brought Richard back to the present and knew he would realise who he meant. ‘He’s still upset about the car.’
‘A couple of years ago I met the woman who owned the lingerie shop,’ Richard grinned. ‘She’s not upset any more.’
‘Can’t appease the CO that way.’
‘Bugger the CO.’
‘Rather not, man, rather not. He’s ugly as sin.’
They walked around the dam and stood on the grassy banks at one end. ‘What’s the buzz?’ Richard asked.
‘Don’t take this personally,’ Greg said, ‘but do you know exactly with whom your daughter is keeping company?’
‘That bloody munt.’ Richard used the short form of umuntu, a collective word meaning ‘a people’ but one which had lost its original meaning as it had taken on a more derogatory definition. It was a word Mugabe had banned as soon as he had taken office.
‘He’s a bit more than any old munt, old Didd.’
‘So he’s got a jolly good job! Bully for him.’
‘That’s his cover. Oh, he’s qualified of course, but he has other interests.’
‘Like what?’
Greg folded his long legs and lowered himself in one fluid motion. ‘Take a seat and listen up.’
They sat on the grass and lit cigarettes. Greg blew smoke skywards then began to speak. ‘Joseph Tshuma is a very dangerous man. He was a Detachment Commander for ZANLA during the war and he was very loyal to Mugabe. After the war he went to South Africa to qualify.’ He took a long drag at his cigarette. ‘I’ll give him this, the man’s got guts. He has a Bachelor of Science degree from Durban University, not an easy thing for a black man to do at that time. He came back here full of confidence and convinced that Zimbabwe was the land of opportunity. Incidentally, records show that you interrogated him during the war.’
‘I did? When?’
‘Just before the end.’
‘Christ, the bloody man must know it was me. He said nothing about it. What’s he playing at?’
‘I’d be careful if I were you.’
‘I can handle myself. It’s Penny I worry about. She seems besotted by him.’
‘He can be very charming.’
‘Speak for yourself. Go on with your story.’
Greg flipped his cigarette away. ‘We’re not sure when, but shortly after he returned here he became disenchanted with things. Progress wasn’t moving fast enough. The promised good life seemed out of reach. He’d fought for freedom but he was no better off financially than he’d been before the war. He’d seen the oppression in South Africa and he’d mixed with some fairly radical people there, white and black. Someone turned him, probably someone he met at university.’
‘Turned him! You’re talking as though there’s a whole faction out there waiting to topple Mugabe. Are you saying Nkomo is planning something?’
‘Joshua Nkomo still has a lot of followers. God knows they’ve little enough to be grateful for. All the top jobs go to the Shona. There’s a coup waiting in the wings. They just need support from someone outside, someone who doesn’t like Mugabe, and this country is plunged back into war. It’s a bloody time bomb.’
‘What about Tshuma?’
‘Despite being Shona, he’s unhappy. And there are lots more like him. There’s a whole new order in this country, one we could never have imagined as little as ten years ago. The Shona and the Matabele are joining forces for a common cause. Tshuma is running a cell in Harare. They meet regularly, pass information to each other, keep the enthusiasm running and are biding their time.’ Greg yanked a piece of grass out of the ground and chewed on it absently. ‘There are cells like this all over the country. They are very well organised. Thankfully the Commies have other things on their minds right now or they’d be sniffing around this country like dogs.’
‘Can it be stopped?’
‘There are two ways to stop it. Another full-scale war is one way.’
‘Zimbabwe couldn’t stand another war. The country would go under.’
‘Mugabe realises this. He’s trying to introduce Nkomo’s people into the mix but he’s treading a very fine line. He’ll have trouble in his own ranks if they think he’s favouring the other side. You know as well as I that sometimes the rivalry between them causes violent clashes. They’ve hated each other since the Matabele and the Mashona systematically butchered each other a hundred years ago. That’s what makes this new crowd dangerous, they’ve put aside their tribal differences. I wouldn’t have Mugabe’s job for quids.’
‘The bugger wanted it. Let him suffer.’
‘That’s beneath you, Richard. There’s more at stake here.’
‘I know that,’ Richard said impatiently, ‘but I don’t have to like the man.’ He squinted at Greg. ‘How come you know so much?’
‘I work for an organisation in South Africa that wants Mugabe to stay in power. They don’t like Nkomo or hi
s policies. And they particularly don’t like the rumours they’ve been hearing about this new lot. They’re prepared to spend money to see the status quo remains the same.’
‘How much money?’
‘As much as it takes.’
‘That’s the other way to stop it, I take it—money?’
‘What it can buy,’ Greg agreed.
‘Let’s get back to Tshuma.’
‘Joseph Tshuma is intelligent. He’s being groomed for a top job if Mugabe goes down. He has some pretty queer ideas, too.’
‘Like?’
‘Like chasing the whites out of Zim forever. Like repatriating their farms and businesses.’
‘That’s going on now.’
‘I know, but what’s going on now is chicken-feed compared to what it would be like if our friend Tshuma had his way. Right now, relations between South Africa and Mugabe could be described as cautiously optimistic. If Tshuma and his bunch got in, it’d be a shambles.’
‘How about Joshua Nkomo? I don’t honestly believe he’s all that radical.’
‘Neither do we. We’re coming to the conclusion that Nkomo is not involved. It looks like an entirely new party has been spawned under the guise of ZIPRA. Let’s face it, the dissatisfaction of the Matabele makes them easy pickings. It would be clever of any new party to use the old banner.’
Richard mulled over what he had just heard. ‘What you’re saying is based on rumour but, knowing you, it must be a strong one so I can only assume there’s more you’re not telling me.’ He glanced at Greg but the man’s face remained expressionless. ‘Okay, I know how you hate to commit yourself unless you have proof. Any idea who’s heading the new party?’
‘We’re not sure.’
‘So you’ve come back to . . .’
‘. . . to gather intelligence’ Greg finished the sentence. ‘We need more information. We need to get closer to a few of them.’
Richard was thinking ahead. ‘I’m trying to put together a hunt in a couple of weeks. My son will be out here from boarding school. My daughter and Tshuma are supposed to be joining us. I hope Steve will be with us. Why don’t you come too?’
‘That’s a bit too obvious. Tshuma probably remembers me, or at least knows my name. Is there anyone else you could invite so I sort of blended in.’
‘A woman?’
‘Do me a favour. I’m a happily married man.’
‘Never stopped you during the war.’
Greg grinned. ‘Yeah, and bloody nearly got me killed twice.’
Richard laughed. ‘That’s because you were stupid enough to get caught.’ He thought about who to include in the hunt. While he was happy to help Greg meet Joseph Tshuma, he did not want to turn it into a big gathering. ‘How about if I ask Robert Woodcock and his wife? They’re old friends, you remember Robert, don’t you?’
‘Timber Prick, sure I remember him.’
‘Don’t, for God’s sake, call him that in front of Sally.’
‘I thought his wife’s name was Anne.’
‘He’s on his third wife, Anne was his second.’
‘I can’t keep up with you fellers,’ Greg complained.
‘How’s Paula?’ Richard asked wickedly, having heard that Greg and Paula divorced shortly after the war ended. A lot of marriages had floundered under the pressure of separation.
Greg raised his hands in surrender. ‘You’re a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch, old Didd. You always were a bit of a bastard.’
He took no offence as he knew none was meant. ‘Where did you meet your new wife?’ he asked. ‘South Africa?’
‘Nooooo.’ Greg sounded reluctant to talk about her.
‘British?’
‘Nooooo.’
‘From here then?’
‘Yes.’
‘C’mon, man, who is she?’
Greg looked uncomfortable. ‘Her name is Judy,’ he finally admitted, sheepishly.
Richard burst out laughing. ‘You don’t mean . . .’
Greg nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said a trifle defiantly, ‘I married Timber Prick’s first wife.’
‘Oh shit, that means we can’t invite the Woodcocks.’
‘Better not, old Didd. It’s a bit too close to home. Hate dear old Timber Prick to think I might go for double or quits.’
They left the matter unresolved with Greg saying perhaps it would not matter anyway. He could always be introduced as a close friend and if Tshuma thought it suspicious, too bad. Being a family hunt would probably be enough to keep the black man relaxed about Greg’s presence.
‘You don’t suspect Tshuma of being the ringleader do you?’ Richard asked as they made their way back to the Land Rover.
‘He’s not that influential. No, it’s someone we should have thought of,’ Greg glanced sideways at Richard. ‘He might even be white.’
‘A Commie you mean?’
‘Probably,’ Greg said vaguely.
Their conversation was cut short by the sound of a vehicle approaching.
‘Who’s that?’ Greg pointed. The vehicle was a white Toyota Landcruiser.
‘Buggered if I know.’ Richard squinted to see the vehicle better.
As it came nearer they saw two uniformed black men in the cab and some green lettering on the side. ‘Department of Wildlife’. Clearly, although the department had changed its name some years earlier, the new name had not so far extended to their vehicles.
The vehicle pulled up beside them and both men jumped out. ‘Mr Richard Dunn,’ the driver said, approaching Richard.
‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’
‘Sir, we have received information that illegal ivory is being stored on your farm. We would like you to help us with our inquiries.’
The feeling that he was being singled out for attention came back. Someone was out to get him. Probably Joseph Tshuma. ‘You’re welcome to search the place.’
‘Several of your sheds are locked, sir.’
‘That’s right. I keep expensive spare parts and farm equipment in them. If you’d care to follow me I can get the keys from the house.’
‘These keys, sir?’ The man was holding some of Richard’s keys in his hand.
‘Where did you get those?’ He felt his anger rising.
‘From your houseboy.’
‘You have no right to barge in and help yourself. This is private property. Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Steady on, old Didd,’ Greg warned in an undertone.
The driver was unperturbed. ‘Mr Tshuma has authorised it, sir. He is the Chief—’
‘I know who bloody Tshuma is,’ Richard grated. ‘And I’ll have his guts for garters for this. This is harassment.’
‘Are you refusing to help us with our inquiries, sir?’ The man’s politeness was calculated to rile and Richard rose to the bait.
‘Get off my land. Don’t come back without a search warrant and by God it had better be signed by someone in authority, not your poncy boss.’
‘Will this do, sir?’ the other man held out a flimsy piece of paper. It was a search warrant and it had been signed by a magistrate.
Richard’s anger left him as quickly as it had come. He had nothing to hide, thank God. Not any more. Might as well cooperate and get it over with. ‘Very well,’ he said curtly, ‘follow me.’ And without waiting to see if they would, he got into the Land Rover and drove quickly away. Greg only just managed to jump in beside him in time.
‘Bastards,’ Richard ground out.
‘Don’t antagonise them. They love to see you get angry.’
‘Bloody bastards. Put ’em in uniform and they think they can walk all over you.’
‘What are you worried about. You’re not poaching are you?’
Richard heaved a sigh and shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
‘Jesus, you mean you were poaching? That’s just plain dumb, man.’
‘I needed the money. I nearly lost the farm.’
‘You could go to prison.’
; ‘It was two years ago, man. They’ll find nothing on Pentland. It’s that bloody Tshuma trying to get at me.’ Richard banged his hand on the wheel. ‘What’s his game?’
‘Sounds to me like he’s got it in for you. What did you do to him when you interrogated him?’
‘How should I know? I don’t even remember doing it.’
‘I’d be a bit worried about Penny if I were you.’ Greg sounded worried himself.
‘Try telling that to Penny.’
‘I might just do that. Maybe she’d listen to an outsider.’
‘The best of British luck, she sure as hell doesn’t listen to me.’
By the time they reached the first of the locked sheds he had calmed down. He snatched the keys away from the Game Department man and unlocked the doors.
They took their time examining the shed. One of them poked at a bag of salt in the corner. ‘What’s this used for?’
‘Salting skins,’ Richard was being deliberately provocative.
The man raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
‘It’s not a crime to shoot the occasional buck for meat on your own property is it? If the skin is a good one we keep it. You’ll find lots of skins in my house and in the workers’ huts. After all,’ he added sarcastically, ‘we’ve been here twenty years. Things were different a few years ago.’
The double innuendo was not lost on the two black men. To pay him back they took even more time examining every corner of the shed.
As they were leaving the driver said, ‘You have tusks beside your fireplace. Where did they come from?’
‘I hunt occasionally.’ Richard was livid that the man had been poking around his house without him being there but he managed to keep his tone normal.
‘Do you have official documentation for the tusks?’
‘Probably not,’ Richard answered with studied carelessness. But his volatile temper surged back and he growled, ‘Go check your files. You’ll see I applied for and was granted licences for every damned trophy in my house. I don’t keep your bloody scraps of paper, why should I?’
‘Very well, sir. We’ll just check the other locked shed and then we will have to make a list of your trophies,’ the driver looked smug. ‘It is my duty to inform you, sir, that we have authority to confiscate any trophy for which you do not have a licence. If your collection does not agree with our files we will have to remove it. I hope you understand, sir, that the department will levy a small charge against you for the extra work involved in checking our records. If you had kept your licences, sir, this would not have been necessary.’
Storms Over Africa Page 16
