Devil’s Harvest

by Andrew Brown

  Gabriel turned his attention back to his wife and the evening’s guest. Ismail was explaining aspects of the apparently complicated Sudanese north–south politics to an attentive Jane.

  ‘Washington is desperate to buy President al-Bashir’s assistance to get the South onto its feet, promising an end to sanctions, the renewal of foreign aid, even taking my country off that scandalous terrorist list. But it’s hopeless. The South is … how do you say, our mirror side? The sun shines on us and casts the South as our shadow: we are wealthy, sophisticated, devout believers, while they’re poor, primitive and heathen. Ajam. And the problem with the paganists is getting them to follow any social rules; there’s so little incentive.’ Ismail gave a little laugh, as if to himself alone. ‘The South will never survive on its own. We call them awlad al-gharb – the lost children of the West.’

  ‘That’s not what we hear over here,’ Jane responded, her tone not the least bit confrontational. ‘The division is seen as a brave break from old colonial boundaries.’

  ‘That’s what I would expect. The truth is we only let them secede as a payment … a little bribe perhaps, yes? To the West. And yet the SPLM-N rebels are allowed to operate from this new country against us. This separation is nothing but America’s opportunity to destabilise a Muslim country, as they did in Syria and Iran.’ Ismail turned to Gabriel. ‘What do you say, sir?’

  ‘When it comes to politics, I’m agnostic, Professor.’ Gabriel felt momentarily pleased with his wit, though Ismail seemed a little puzzled by the statement.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  Gabriel pressed ahead: ‘Wars will come and go, humans will suffer. Science remains the only constant endeavour. It ignores race, religion, gender; it’s only science and its pursuit of the truth that matters.’

  ‘Spoken like a true believer,’ Ismail said.

  ‘Actually,’ Jane interjected with ominous acrimony, ‘science is where the weak and afraid run to hide from reality. It is the lair of the emotionally infirm.’

  Hardly the warm support one hoped for from one’s spouse, Gabriel observed. Even the mischievous Sudanese was silent, neither agreeing nor taking issue, perhaps for fear of being drawn into a marital spat. ‘Do you know why the battles between academics are so fierce, Professor?’ Jane continued, turning to him with a smile as if pared by a blade. ‘Because there’s so little at stake.’

  To Gabriel’s surprise, it was his nemesis who came to his rescue. ‘I must disagree – most respectfully, for one does not wish to cross daggers with so beautiful and formidable an opponent – but I don’t agree that so little is at stake. And some debates, no doubt, are nothing but an echo in an empty drum. But in others, much of the health of the developing world may be at risk.’

  Gabriel nodded cautiously, not wishing to antagonise his wife.

  ‘Take your current research, Professor.’ The supercilious smile returned and Gabriel felt his defences rise. ‘I found your lecture most interesting. Of course, this plant has been used by my local countrymen for centuries and just because they haven’t given it a fancy name doesn’t mean that one can now talk of its “discovery”. But now you appear locked into a race to the death with the Chinese. Speaking metaphorically, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about a race,’ Gabriel retorted, perhaps a little too quickly.

  ‘It’s all politics, ultimately all just politics. This is the new colonialism, the recolonising of Africa for her resources. Only, this time, you don’t even have to step onto our shores – you can accumulate your wealth at a distance, safe from the flies and the children with snotty noses.’

  Are we only to study that which will alleviate the starving hordes in Africa, Gabriel thought to himself. Is that where he was headed? Liberal tree-hugging where the starving Third World is approached on bended knee?

  ‘You take,’ Ismail concluded, ‘without even bothering to arrive.’

  Before Gabriel could respond, the young postgraduate student on Coxley’s left joined the conversation. ‘It’s hardly taking without giving,’ she protested. Gabriel had seen her in the corridors, a gauche and unexceptional-looking Australian woman, who had taken on some tutoring for the department. He had never bothered to find out her name. ‘By my understanding,’ she proceeded, ‘South Sudan is almost entirely reliant on aid from the Western world.’

  ‘Ah yes, the spectre of Western aid. If ever there was a self-serving industry, that would be it.’ Ismail stroked his goatee as he launched into a cutting analysis of the NGO industry in Africa, pointing out how the UN, with its own airline, had become an industry in itself and how the Chinese – the continent’s ‘new master’ – were reaping the rewards from upgrading Mozambique’s roads. ‘Now that the Chinese have ripped up the country’s railway line and shipped it off to Beijing for scrap metal, need I tell you that the biggest investment being made by the Mozambique government at the moment is in upgrading its roads? And who benefits from all these contracts? The Chinese, of course.’

  The speech was delivered in an even tone, without any venom, and yet the academic concave at the table sat stranded in berated mortification. Ismail had returned to his plate of food and was politely picking away at his vegetables. The agony of the moment was saved by Jane’s cellphone ringing. The ringtone was usually some default company missive, and Gabriel at first did not realise that the jaunty tune was emanating from her phone. Jane displayed a slavish obedience to the whims of electronic devices; the slightest mew from her iPad or iPhone was treated like an utterance from a newborn baby. Gabriel by contrast could barely find his way around the extraordinary array of options presented by his smartphone. How can you be so good at chemistry but you can’t work a cellphone, was Jane’s regular taunt. Well, chemistry is useful, nay, essential, all the time, was his response. A cellphone is about communication, Gabriel. Precisely my point, he thought but elected not to articulate.

  Jane whipped the phone out and started pressing buttons even as she stood up, a perfunctory ‘excuse me’ on her lips. Professor Ismail pulled his chair back and half-rose in a gentlemanly fashion. There was a scuffing of chairs as some of the English tried, too late, to afford her the same courtesy. By the time Coxley had extricated himself from the fold of the tablecloth and clambered to his feet, Jane was halfway across the room, cupping her hand to her mouth, and Ismail was repositioning his napkin.

  ‘Tell me, Gabriel. Where does your wonderfully intelligent wife work?’

  ‘BAE Systems. At its Filton Centre.’

  Ismail made no indication that he recognised the name.

  ‘She works for British Aerospace, the armaments manufacturer,’ Gabriel added bluntly, and with some relish.

  * * *

  ‘Dessert’ was too sophisticated a word to describe the next course; ‘pudding’ was closer to the mark, though even that might be considered flattery. Layered bread and butter made from cheap white bread and studded with bloated raisins like the bodies of dead flies. A number of guests moved directly on to coffee, Gabriel and the Sudanese professor included. At least the coffee had been filtered through real ground beans, although Gabriel noted Ismail pushing it genteelly to one side after his first sip.

  Symington engaged his guest at his end of the table in a discussion about the demise of the botany degree. Gabriel’s attention wandered: it was an old and pointless debate that started when the degree structures were changed. The head of department at the University of Leicester had stirred things up by writing an article in ArtPlantae titled ‘The last botany student in the UK’. Since then, various academics had contributed much hot air and little substance, in Gabriel’s view, to a discussion that was better placed in sociology: it had nothing to do with the standard of the degree and everything to do with the lazy perceptions of the prospective student body. There was an attitude – certainly prevalent in England and Gabriel suspected worldwide – that standards ought to be lowered in fairness to the less accomplished, that the dolts of the world might part
icipate in intellectual spheres quite beyond their limited capabilities. He found the idea repugnant: he was particularly offended when those who would ‘equalise the playing fields’ accepted that heart surgeons and airline pilots should be exempt from such platitudes, but that ‘less essential’ disciplines – such as the sciences – should be subjected to this dilution.

  The lugubrious Hargreaves had warned him that his stance was ‘politically incorrect’ – a strange term that had surprisingly little to do with whether one was a card-carrying member of the Birmingham chapter of the Neo-Nazi Party. Hargreaves insisted that he would be seen as snobbish, and that it would bedevil his ambitions within the university hierarchy. But Gabriel did not see himself as a snob – his parents, now both in retirement, had hardly enjoyed a rarefied status, one a teacher and the other a librarian. If anyone was a snob it was Jane: she was an only child and heavily influenced by her father, an industry man who eschewed any sentimentality and demanded performance from all around him. Her mother was a simpering housewife who provided no role model to an ambitious daughter, standing in the wings as she watched her daughter harden under her father’s attentions, entering her adult world with confidence, incorruptible expectation and, it now appeared to her husband, a sorry dearth of affection.

  The sputtering Coxley and the Australian postgraduate student had struck up an animated conversation. Gabriel half-listened as they prattled on, apparently playing some kind of game, throwing out the names of countries and keeping a running total. The postgrad mistook his turn of the head as a sign of interest.

  ‘We’re counting the countries we’ve stepped foot in. So far I’m winning.’

  ‘I’m disputing her eight-hour stay at Dubai airport. I don’t think it counts.’ Coxley looked a little flushed.

  ‘So you don’t actually have to spend any time in the country, or get to know anything about it?’ Gabriel asked.

  If the Australian thought the question was undermining her game, she did not show it. ‘No, no, you just need to touch the soil, well the ground, put your feet on the ground, then it’s in the bag. It’s a great game. I’ve been all over the place, like airports and that.’

  ‘How many countries on your winning list are in Africa?’ Professor Ismail had turned his attention to the young student.

  ‘Oh, I’m a bit low on Africa,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘I stopped at Nairobi airport on my way to Mauritius as a child. That’s about it. I’m aiming for Egypt someday, but it’s a bit unstable still.’

  ‘You should look at Africa,’ Ismail said. ‘All those countries, especially on the west coast, they’re small and packed together. You could do a whole lot of them in a few days, just jumping from one to the next. Your score could be huge.’

  Gabriel cringed for the young woman, who looked flustered for the first time, unsure of the sincerity of the speaker. Coxley blushed openly, embarrassed that he had associated himself with the foolishness.

  Gabriel saw Jane come back into the hall at the far end, but she hovered by the door, not making her way back.

  ‘Ah, your wife is to rejoin us.’ Ismail had followed his gaze. ‘Perhaps we can ask her what her airport tally is?’

  The Australian mumbled something and excused herself, heading for the side exit to the bathrooms. Gabriel had never encountered anyone with such rudeness and etiquette, a vicious mix of sociable opprobrium.

  To his annoyance, Jane slipped out again, pushing the door back with her shoulder, her cellphone clamped to her ear. Coxley retracted into himself and Ismail turned once more to the head of department. Gabriel left the table and followed after his wife, pushing open the heavy door and entering into the courtyard outside, though it was a courtyard in name only. There were no cobbles or terracotta plant pots or Mediterranean olive trees. Instead, the yard lacked any atmosphere other than distilled bureaucracy, a kind of grey Soviet starkness that would make even minimalists recoil. Jane was standing to one side in the void, talking earnestly into her phone.

  ‘I can’t right now …’ she said in an uncharacteristic plea, before seeing Gabriel emerge. ‘Hold on,’ she added, putting her hand over the receiver. ‘I’m just talking to a colleague. Problem at work. I’ll be in now.’ She nodded to him encouragingly.

  Gabriel thought to ask if he could help, but ‘work’ was not an area in which he could take any interest. There were issues of state security and political sensitivities at play. Mercifully, this meant that he did not have to endure any staff dinners or collegial cocktails. Jane seldom discussed anything she did at BAE, and he’d learnt not to ask, although her tone of voice suggested that the current problem was something more in the HR line than the military. He shrugged his shoulders and went back into the hall, reluctantly making his way back to the table.

  Symington was still babbling on: ‘Of course, the idea of fields of albedo-augmented crops will have the anti-GM lobby in an absolute state of hysteria, regardless of its benefits for global warming. It just isn’t a possibility for us in the First World.’

  ‘Regrettably, Professor,’ Ismail replied, ‘in Sudan we don’t have the luxury of objecting to how our food is grown. Nor indeed where it comes from.’ He had directed his response to Gabriel, who was pulling up his chair. ‘I trust all is well with Mrs Coe-burn.’

  Gabriel nodded, trying to hide his irritation at his wife’s absence. ‘Yes, yes. Just a small issue at work. She’ll be back soon.’

  ‘A pity. As I must now be going. Please give her my apologies for not taking my leave of her properly.’ The table rose as the guest got to his feet, delivering his thanks and goodbyes to each person individually, by name. The Australian postgraduate turned out to be Samantha. Ismail kept his greeting of Gabriel for last. He looked at him keenly. Gabriel felt another challenge brewing. The remainder of the table seemed to tense as well, save for Symington who had dropped his napkin and was blithely searching for it below table height.

  ‘Professor, if I may say so, I don’t believe that your research can be said to be complete until you’ve taken the time to explore the site first-hand.’

  ‘The site?’

  ‘Yes, you should come to Sudan.’

  ‘Ah yes, well, my research assistant undertook a field trip last year. Regrettably, the authorities in South Sudan wouldn’t allow her beyond the confines of Juba.’

  Ismail pondered this answer without apparent sympathy. ‘The hostilities are over between my country and the South. We are happier neighbours, for now at least.’ He stood up and leant across the table to take Gabriel’s hand. ‘Some might go so far as to say that the ethics of research demand the presence of the primary author there.’ Ismail smiled and withdrew his hand. ‘I wouldn’t go so far. But I do think that to publish without first-hand environmental data would be … a mistake.’

  These then were the parting shots that left Gabriel exposed before his expectant colleagues. There was no witty retort, no easy escape: the professor from Khartoum had cornered his quarry.

  Chapter 6

  RAF WADDINGTON AIR FORCE BASE LINCOLNSHIRE, ENGLAND

  Air Marshal Bartholomew had doodled a cartoon caricature of a falling bomb, whistling through imaginary clouds towards an awaiting city of skyscrapers. When he looked down at the page he realised it looked something like Fat Man descending on Nagasaki. The peaceniks would have something to say about it, he mused, as he added a smiley face to the bulge of the bomb. Air Commodore Rogers was sitting next to him, watching the drawing progress with a serious expression, as if the air marshal was busy distilling the content of the presentation to the committee into a succinct flow chart or graph. They were meant to be considering a submission from the Lethality and Vulnerability Modelling research group from BAE Filton. The work was based on fragment penetration trials looking at the interception geometry of an air-to-ground target engagement using blast-fragmenting weapons. It was military verbiage for assessing the blast radius and likely casualties from an air missile with a fragmenting warhead, fired from an unman
ned aerial vehicle. The army and the naval officers referred to the UAVs as ‘drones’, even in technical committees such as this, but the air force regarded the term as somehow demeaning, a hyped-up phrase coined by the media. For the air force, these remote-controlled high-level cruisers were either UAVs or Reapers.

  Bartholomew disliked the involvement of civilians in military matters, but had reluctantly come to accept that commercial realities concentrated the brains and financial capacities in private corporates. A woman from BAE – introduced as Ms Easter – was taking the committee through some of the modelling. She was a prim and aggressive blonde, in her early forties, Bartholomew surmised. She stood in front of a smart screen, addressing herself to each of the members of the committee in turn, regardless of their feigned attentiveness or lack thereof. She had dressed in an androgynous power suit and maintained an unsmiling demeanour. Yet there was a foxiness about her, a tautness in her body that suggested athleticism. A few years ago he would have shown her a thing or two, a young filly like her, succumbing to his charge. He sighed, turned the page over to hide his irreverent sketch and tried to give her his attention once more.

  Each slide in the presentation had the official ministry of defence logo and the byline that was supposed to govern the research development: ‘Making the combat zone safe’ – as if combat was actually intended to be a field game with gentleman’s rules aimed at avoiding any unpleasant bumps or bruises. It seemed the very worst of oxymorons, thought up by bureaucrats in the ministry who had never fired a weapon and failed to understand that warfare was about maiming and destroying, ripping limb from limb. But war never harmed the administrators.

  The door to the committee room opened and one of the mousy secretaries the military was wont to employ slunk in. Given the nature of the meeting, this was something of a breach of protocol, and Ms Easter pointedly halted her presentation. The secretary looked harried and scuttled over to Bartholomew, pushing a folded note in front of him. He could smell her floral perfume, a lightly scented aroma that was initially pleasing and then cloying. It also failed to hide the stink of cigarettes on her breath.