Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  ‘The maintenance office and buildings are on the left. The geology office, core shed and prep-lab are on the right,’ said Bruno, pointing them out. ‘That building at the end is the logistics office and stock rooms for spares. The heavy machinery park is beyond the maintenance office, and there are some extra storerooms for tyres and caterpillar tracks.’

  Workers scurried back and forth between the buildings. Some of them wore company-issue overalls and boots, others did not.

  ‘Why doesn’t everyone have a uniform on?’ said Sam. ‘Is there a shortage?’

  Bruno froze and fiddled with the zip on his overalls.

  ‘They sell them,’ he said, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘Sell them? To whom?’ But then she remembered all the men in Masaibu sitting outside the shops.

  ‘The company issues them to all workers, including the ones on a short contract. Those guys sell them in town to make more money.’

  ‘How long are the contracts?’ said Sam.

  ‘Three months. It’s something to do with the labour laws.’

  Bruno’s expression turned to alarm as Sam scribbled a note in her workbook.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone I told you,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, I promise, as long as you tell me everything you know.’

  Trapped like a rabbit in the headlights, Bruno nodded.

  ‘Let’s get on with the tour,’ said Sam.

  The maintenance building ran the length of the works area. They had divided it into sectors for washing, maintenance and repair of vehicles. The office was half way down the building, its grubby windows obscured by a covering of grease and dirt. A man sat on the steps smoking a cigarette with the air of an addict. When he noticed Bruno, he clenched his jaw in fury.

  ‘You stupid fat bastard. What are you doing here? I told you to take the worksheets to Philippe.’

  Bruno cowered behind Sam, his blubber wobbling in fright.

  ‘It’s not his fault. I asked him to help me,’ she said.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’ said the man.

  ‘I’m Sam Harris, the new General Manager.’

  The man dropped his attitude with his cigarette and scrambled to his feet, wiping his hand on his filthy overalls.

  ‘Jesus, I’m sorry. Not a great start eh? I’m Frik Els, the maintenance manager. Welcome to Masaibu.’

  ‘Thanks, Frik. Let’s start again, shall we? I was hoping to get a feel for the place and Bruno walked by, so I collared him.’

  ‘No that’s okay. Sorry lad,’ said Frik, patting Bruno on the shoulder. But then he muttered to Sam under his breath. ‘Don’t let him fool you. These blacks are good lads but they all the same; bone idle.’ He said black with a strong accent so it came out as ‘bliks’.

  Sam didn’t comment. Bruno gave no sign he had heard. He shrugged and grunted. Sam was not ready to investigate this relationship yet, but she noted the antagonism, the sorry state of the garages and the sullen air of the mechanics, who were all bliks. A toxic mix of racism and resentment.

  This was prime territory, but Sam had learned a few things over the course of her career. Never try to solve a problem if you don’t know the root cause. Why was everyone so resentful that blame had turned to racism?

  ‘What’s your biggest problem?’ she said to Frik. ‘If I had a magic wand where would you like me to wave it?’

  Frik inspected her as if to gauge whether she was joking. Her calm expression seemed to reassure him. He beckoned her to follow and set off to the far end of the building. Bruno shuffled behind them. Not close enough to converse, but in hearing range.

  They rounded the corner into a yard with a concrete floor.

  ‘Voila,’ said Frik.

  ***

  The rectangular meeting table was full. Several people who could not fit at the table sat on chairs lined up against the wall. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and rebellious mutters. Sam made them wait for a full five minutes before entering. Philippe sat in the chair at the head of the table intended for Sam. He had left a chair at the other end for her, squashed beside another holding a man she did not recognise.

  She didn’t sit down. She walked past the people seated beside the wall and parked herself behind Philippe.

  ‘Good morning everyone. For those who haven’t met me yet, I am Sam Harris, the new General Manager. Philippe, can you do the introductions, please, clockwise from where I’m standing? When you’ve finished, can you move to the other chair? I’d like to sit here so I can see everyone.’

  A frisson went around the group. Philippe had the grace to look embarrassed. He vacated the seat and introduced the other managers.

  ‘On your left is Frik Els, maintenance manager. His deputy, Bruno Kabila, is behind him. Then there’s Hans Kerber, the security manager, and Jacques Armour, his second in command. Beside him is Ngoma Itoua, the union manager, Alain Folle, the geology manager, Dr Frederick Ntuli, the health and safety manager, and Moussa Dueme, the supplies manager. Joe Haba, the community relations manager is absent.’

  ‘Probably having relations in the community,’ said Hans, sniggering.

  Several people snorted. Sam walked around the table shaking hands and sat at the top.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from your work. From now on we’ll hold the meeting at seven thirty on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. That should give you time to issue instructions and do your toolbox talks before the meeting.’

  Dr Ntuli’s hand shot up.

  ‘Yes?’ said Sam.

  ‘What is a toolbox?’ he said.

  This is awkward. The health and safety manager doesn’t know what a toolbox talk is.

  ‘You probably call it something else,’ she said smiling. ‘The morning safety briefing.’

  Dr Ntuli didn’t reply. He sank back in his chair. From people’s expressions, there was a general lack of comprehension surrounding this concept. It’s worse than I imagined. I need a strategy.

  ‘The purpose of this meeting is to update other departments about the projects being carried out and for requesting technical help from them. Any detailed discussions will take place with me after the meeting. Understood?’

  Heads nodded.

  ‘Okay then. Five minutes each only please. Frik, will you go first?’

  ***

  ‘Hi Dirk,’

  ‘Sam. Good to hear from you. I presume you are calling from Masaibu?’

  ‘Yes, I got here okay. Everything is as expected, well not exactly...’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘I took a walk around the works yard this morning with Frik Els, the maintenance manager.’

  ‘I know Frik. Old school.’

  If you mean a racist misogynist.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Well, he took me to the machinery park. It’s not good news I’m afraid.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘All of the heavy machinery is out of order except for one small bulldozer and they’re only keeping that going by cannibalizing the other one. Both excavators need a new set of tracks and the grader needs new tyres.’

  There was a long silence, and Sam was about to redial, presuming the line had dropped.

  ‘Dirk? Are you still there?’ she said.

  ‘I see.’ She could hear him lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Frik says he ordered the spares for the machinery six months ago but no one has replied or queried the list.’

  Another long pause broken by the sound of a chair scraping the floor.

  ‘Those spares are expensive. I’m not sure if head office authorised them. The project was sponging up money, and the board stopped all purchases,’ said Dirk

  ‘I can understand that, but I’m here now and I’ll make sure the spares don’t go missing. Can you please expedite the order?’ said Sam.

  ‘Okay, but I’ll need you to send it again. I’m not sure where it ended up.’

  ‘I’ll fax it to you today. Is this
item in the budget?’

  ‘No, I’ll get permission for the expense and we’ll top up later. Send in the order.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll fax it to you later.’

  Sam put the phone down and switched on her word processor. She waited for ten minutes while the computer attempted to connect to the internet. That bloody dialling tone would drive her scatty. Then she composed an email to Dirk detailing their conversation and sent it to him. She made a paper copy to keep in a file in case the computer got damaged. Not being an expert, she was suspicious of floppy discs. She had also taken a photograph of the machinery up on blocks, intending to keep a visual log of progress.

  After emailing Dirk, Sam dropped by to see Philippe in his new office. The sullen expression on his face told her all she needed to know about his reaction to having his office usurped. She was not anticipating his co-operation, but she had to establish a line of communication if she was to send red herrings to whoever was masterminding the losses.

  A winning smile on her face, she sat in a chair facing him. He did not return it.

  ‘I hope your office is better suited to your needs. It was good of you to be so efficient in moving here. I see you kept the desk.’

  Philippe sounded like he was swallowing a plum. He sniffed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need your help with something. Can you spare me half an hour?’

  The look said he would rather eat slugs.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’re the expert around here, and I will need to tell you all my secrets if we are to succeed with Masaibu.’

  As if.

  Philippe perked up. He smoothed his hands over his bald head and sat forward in his chair with his chest puffed out. His lips peeled away from his teeth which were a startling yellow colour.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  Vanity, thy name is man. Hooked.

  ‘I need you to explain the composition of the workforce. Can we start with the contract workers from the local town?’

  ‘We use two hundred men as labourers for unskilled work like grass cutting, digging ditches and platforms for drilling, and carrying goods from one place to another.’

  ‘Why are they on short contracts? Don’t we need unskilled labour all the time?’

  ‘We signed an agreement with the mayor to share the labouring jobs among the local populations. We rotate new people into the job every three months.’

  ‘That’s great. Whose idea was that?’

  ‘Mine.’ A smug expression sat on his face like that of a toad with a blue bottle in its mouth.

  Sam smiled. ‘Some workers don’t have overalls or safety boots. Do we have a problem with supplies?’

  Philippe’s eyes widened and he shifted in his chair.

  ‘Everyone gets an overall and boots when they start here. Perhaps they have lost them.’

  ‘They must have lost them in town then, because half of the male population are wearing them.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Philippe fiddled with the buttons on his shirt.

  ‘Isn’t it compulsory to wear high visibility uniforms and safety boots on site?’

  ‘You would have to check with Dr Ntuli.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need to. It’s in the list of regulations in the visitor booklet you gave me yesterday.’

  Take that! She raised her eyebrows in inquiry. Philippe shrugged but his eyes were blazing with fury.

  ‘But what can we do? People lose things,’ he said.

  Unless they lost a container full of uniforms on the way to Masaibu town, she doubted the veracity of his excuse but she let it slip. There was an easy place to get this information.

  ‘How often do we pay the local workers?’ she said.

  ‘We pay them in cash on Saturday afternoons before they go home.’

  ‘Who pays them?’

  ‘I do.’

  He shifted in his seat again and wiped his hands on his legs.

  Sam knitted her eyebrows together in fake confusion.

  ‘Um, so what happens to the overalls and boots at the weekend?’

  ‘They wear them home.’

  Sam pretended to write something in her A5 spiral notebook. She did not require rocket science to figure out this money-making scheme. Did Philippe take a cut from the sales of the gear, or from the salaries? Or both? There wasn’t much she could do about paying the wages in cash as it was unlikely any of the labourers had bank accounts. But she could put a spanner in the works.

  ‘Two hundred men. How much is that in cash?’

  ‘About ten thousand dollars,’ said Philippe, who was scratching at his face.

  ‘Do you use security?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Security for the cash.’

  ‘I don’t need…’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You have ten thousand dollars in your office every Saturday morning. Isn’t that asking for trouble? Aren’t there rebels operating in this area?’

  ‘We’ve done it this way for years without any problems.’

  ‘Hans tells me rebel activity has increased in the last few months. It can’t be a secret that we have that much cash on site.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Philippe’s face registered panic.

  ‘We can’t allow that to continue. I’d hate anything to happen to you. It is my responsibility to keep you safe,’ said Sam.

  ‘It’s not necessary.’

  ‘Oh, but I insist. I’ll talk to Hans about providing cover.’

  Without waiting for a reply, she frowned once more at her fake notes, gathered them up and left. She was giggling with glee inside. Gotcha.

  The sun blazed down on the dusty trees and bone-dry ground of the hill top where the camp was situated. Several scrawny chickens pecked at the surface, their beaks bouncing off the hard earth. A skeletal cat stalked them without enthusiasm, her belly so stretched by repeated litters of kittens it almost touched the soil.

  Sam headed straight to the logistics office. She had a fair idea of who was cooking the books on the supply side. There was only one person with access to the uniform orders and distribution.

  Moussa Dueme, the logistics manager was picking his nose with practiced enthusiasm and was inspecting the results on the end of his finger as Sam put her head around the door. He jumped, wiping his digit on his trousers and putting his hand to his chest as if staving off an attack of palpitations.

  ‘Mama Sam. Welcome,’ he said, breaking out into a spontaneous sweat.

  Perhaps Philippe wasn’t the only one making hay in Masaibu. This man appeared to be having a heart attack. Must be small fry, or he would be better at dissimulating.

  Sam had learned over the years that thinking too well of people often allowed them to be better than they otherwise would be.

  ‘I hope you’re not too busy, Mr Dueme.’ Picking your nose

  ‘Please call me Moussa. No, I always have time for you.’

  ‘Excellent, because I need your help. I want to set up a uniform collection scheme.’

  Moussa frowned and screwed up his face.

  ‘A what? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I understand the casual labourers take their uniforms and boots home every weekend?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are the overalls or the boots numbered?’

  ‘No. Why would we do that?’

  ‘We need a system for tracking them so they don’t end up for sale in town. I’d like you to collect the uniforms on Saturdays, store the boots and send the overalls to the laundry. If you number the items, you can record them under the name of the worker who signs them out, and use same the number to ensure they return the items at the weekend.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ A look of dread had crept across Moussa’s features.

  ‘You can give them two tokens, a red one for the boots, and a blue one for the overalls with that number on them to take to HR.�
��

  ‘What if they don’t present the tokens to HR?’

  ‘Anyone who doesn’t have a token will have to pay for a new overall or set of boots from their pay. Or both.’

  ‘What if they steal someone else’s tokens?’

  ‘You will provide HR with a copy of the stock sheets so that no one can present a token which doesn’t correspond to the items you issued to him.’

  ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘They won’t have a choice. Please don’t issue any more company clothing or footwear without first numbering them and registering under the name of the person who receives it. You’ll need to explain about the tokens and inform them of the amount that will be debited.’

  Sam waited. Moussa Dueme swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in agitation.

  ‘But what if they damage the clothes at work?’ he said.

  ‘They can swap them with you here at the stores and you can put the same number in the new article.’

  Moussa was not beaten.

  ‘I don’t have enough storage here.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the carpenters. Do we have suitable timber for the shelving?’ said Sam.

  Moussa brightened up.

  ‘No, but if you sign a purchase order, I will buy some.’

  ‘Why don’t we go together? You can show me the town.’

  Gloom descended once more.

  ‘Yes, Mama Sam.’

  ***

  Hans’ eyes widened and he supported his chin on his hands. He inspected Sam as if he had never seen her before.

  ‘So, can you do it?’ said Sam.

  ‘Provide security in Philippe’s office on a Saturday? You’re the general manager, you only have to ask me.’

  ‘I’m asking,’ said Sam, sticking her chin out.

  ‘You’re poking a bear with a short stick.’

  ‘I’m doing it on purpose. And I intend to keep going.’

  ‘Do you want my advice?’ said Hans.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Do things one at a time. Build the shelves, buy the tokens, set up the stock room in time for the next intake of workers. Don’t make your next move until this beds in.’

  Sam was about to argue, but she could see the sense in what Hans had said.

  ‘Anyway, aren’t you on a contract? Why not get paid for a little longer?’ said Hans, winking, and Sam smirked back. Touché.