Leopard Hunts in Darkness b-4

by Wilbur A. Smith

  "That will do very well, Peter." A servant in a flowing white kanza, reminiscent of colonial days, brought Craig his drink and when he left, Peter Fungabera said simply, "The Land Bank of Zimbabwe has agreed to stand as your personal surety for a loan of five million dollars from the World Bank or its associate bank in New York." Craig gaped at him.

  "Your connection with the World Bank is not a particularly closely guarded secret, you know. Henry Pickering is well known to us too Peter smiled, and went on quickly.

  "Of course, there are certain conditions and stipulations, but I don't think they will be prohibitive." He turned to his white attorney.

  "You have the documents, Izzy? Good, will you give Mr. Mellow a copy, and then read through them for us, please."

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  Isadore Cohen adjusted his spectacles, squared up the thick pile of documents on the table in front of him and began.

  "Firstly, this is a land purchase approval," he said.

  "Authority for Craig Mellow, a British subject and a citizen of Zimbabwe, to purchase a controlling interest in the land-owning private company, known as Rholands (Pry) Ltd. The approval is signed by the state president and countersigned by the minister of agriculture." Craig thought of Tungata Zebiwe's promise to quash that approval and then he remembered that the minister of agriculture was Peter Fungabera's brother-in-law. He glanced across at the general, but he was listening intently to his lawyer's recitation.

  As he came to each document in the pile, Isadore Cohen read through it carefully, not omitting even the preamble, and pausing at the end of each paragraph for questions and explanations.

  Craig was so excited that he had difficulty sitting still and keeping his expression and voice level and businesslike. The momentary panic he had felt at Peter's sudden mention of the World Bank was forgotten and he felt like whooping and dancing up and down the veranda: Rholands was his, King's Lynn was his, Queen's Lynn was his, and Zambezi Waters was his.

  Even in his excitation there was one paragraph that rang with a hollow note with Isadore Cohen read it out.

  "What the hell doe that mean enemy of the state and the people of Zimbabuk?" he demanded.

  "It's a standard clause in all our do cum ntation," Isadore Cohen placated him, "merely an expression of patriotic sentiment. The Land Bank is a government institution. If the borrower were to engage in treasonable activity and was declared an enemy of the state and people, the Land Bank would be obliged to repudiate all its obligations to the guilty party."

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  "Is that legal?" Craig was dubious, and when the lawyer reassured him, he went on, "Do you think the lending bank will accept that?" "They have done so already on other contracts of surety," the bank governor told him. "As Mr. Cohen says, it's a standard clause."

  "After all, Craig," Peter Fungabera smiled, "you aren't intending to lead an armed revolution to overthrow our government, are you?" Craig returned his smile weakly. "Well, okay, if the American lending bank will accept that, then I suppose it must be kosher." The reading took almost an hour, and then Governor Musharewa signed all the copies, and both his assistant and Peter Fungabera witnessed his signature. Then it was Craig's turn to sign and again the witnesses followed him, and finally Isadore Cohen impressed his seal of Commissioner of Oaths on each document.

  "That's it, gentlemen. Signed, sealed and delivered."

  "It only remains to see if Henry Pickering will be satisfied." 40h, did I forget to mention it?" Peter Fungabera grinned wickedly. "Governor Kapwepwe spoke to Pickering yesterday afternoon, 10 a.m. New York time. The money will be available to you just as soon as the surety is in his hands." He nodded to the hovering house servant. "Now you can bring the champagne." They toasted each other, the Land Bank, the World Bank, and Rholands Company, and only when the second bottle was empty did the two black bankers take reluctant leave.

  As their limousine went down the drive, Peter Fungabera took Craig's arm. "And now we can discuss my raising fee. Mr. Cohen has the papers." Craig read them, and felt the blood drain from his face.

  "Ten per cent," he gasped. "Ten per cent of the paid, up shares of Rholands."

  "We really must change that name." Peter Fungabera frowned. "As you see, Mr. Cohen will hold the shares as my nominee. It might save embarrassment later." Craig pretended to re-read the contract, while he tried to muster a protest. The two men watched him in silence.

  Ten per cent was robbery, but where else could Craig go?

  Isadore Cohen slowly unscrewed the cap of his pen and handed it to Craig.

  "I think you will find a cabinet minister and an army commander a most useful sleeping partner in this enterprise," he said, and Craig accepted the pen.

  "There is only one copy." Craig still hesitated.

  "We only need one copy," Peter was still smiling, "and I will keep it." Craig nodded.

  There would be no proof of the transaction, shares held by a nominee, no documentation except in Peter Fungabera's hands. In a dispute it would be Craig's word against that of a senior minister but he wanted Rholands. More than anything in his life, Craig wanted Rholands.

  He dashed his signature across the foot of the contract and on the other side of the table the two men relaxed visibly and Peter Fungabera called for a third bottle of champagne.

  p to now; "Craig had needed only a pen and a pile of paper, and time had been his to squander or use as the fancy led him.

  Suddenly, he was faced with the enormous responsibility of ownership and time telescoped in upon him. There was so much to do and so little time to do it that he felt crippled with indecision, appalled by his own audacity, and despairing of his own organizational skills.

  He wanted comfort and encouragement, and he thought immediately of Sally-Anne. He drove around to her apartment, but the windows were closed, the mail overflowed her box, and there was no answer to his knock.

  He returned to the bed-sitter, sat at his table and pulled a blank sheet from the pile and headed it, "Work to be done," and stared at it.

  He remembered what a girl had once said of him. "You have only done one thing well in your life. "And writing a book was a far cry from getting a multi-million, dollar ranching company back on its feet. He felt panic rising within him and crushed it back. His was a ranching family he had been raised with the ammoniac al smell of cow dung in his nostrils, and had learned to judge beef on the hoof when he was small enough to perch up on Bawu's saddle, pommel likea sparrow on a fence pole.

  "I can do it he told himself fiercely, and began to work on his list. He wrote: 1) Ring Jock Daniels. Accept offer to purchase Rholands.

  2) Fly to New York.

  a) World Bank meeting.

  b) Open checking account and deposit funds.

  C) Sell Bawu.

  3) Fly ZUrich.

  a) Sign share purchase.

  b) Arrange payment to sellers.

  His panic began to subside. He picked up the telephone and dialled British Airways. They could get him out on the Friday flight to London, and then Concorde to New York.

  He caught Jock Daniels in his office. "Where the hell you been?" He could hear Jock had made a good start on the evening's drinking.

  "Jock, congratulations you have just made yourself twenty, five grand commission," Craig told him and enjoyed the stunned silence.

  Craig's list began to stretch out, ran into a dozen pages: 39) Find out if Okky van Renshurg is still in the country.

  Okky had been the mechanic on King's Lynn for twenty years. Craig's grandfather had boasted that Okky could strip down a John Deere tractor and build up a Cadillac and two Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds from the spare parts.

  Craig needed him.

  Craig laid down his pen, and smiled at his memory of the old man. "We are coming home, Bawu," he said aloud.

  He looked at his watch and it was ten o'clock, but he knew he would not be able to sleep.

  He put on a light sweater and went out to walk the night streets, and an hour later he was stand
ing outside Sally-Anne's apartment. His feet had made their own way, it seemed.

  He felt a little tingle of excitement. Her window was open and her light burning.

  "Who is it?" Her voice was muffled.

  "It's me, Craig. "There was a long silence.

  "It's nearly midnight."

  "It's only just eleven and I have something to tell you."

  "Oh, okay door * unlocked." She was in her' dark-room. He could hear the splash of chemicals.

  "I'll be five minutes, she called. "Do you know how to make coffeeP When she came out, she was dressed in a sloppy cable knit jersey that hung to her knees and her hair was loose on her shoulders. He had never seen it like that, and he stared.

  "This had better be good," she warned him, fists on her hips.

  "I've got Rholands "he said, and it was her turn to stare.

  "Who or what is Rholands?"

  "The company that owns Zambezi Waters. I own it. It's mine. Zambezi Waters is mine. Is that good enough?" She started to come to him, her arms rising to embrace him, and he mirrored the movement, and instantly she caught herself and stopped, forcing him to do the same.

  They were two paces apart.

  "That's marvelous news, Craig. I am so happy for you.

  How did it happen? I thought it was all off."

  "Peter Fungabera arranged a surety for a loan of five million dollars."

  "My God. Five million. You're borrowing five million?

  How much is the interest on five million?" He had not wanted to think about that. It showed on his face, and she was immediately contrite.

  "I'm sorry. That was insolent. I'm truly happy for you.

  We must celebrate-"Quickly she moved away from him.

  In the cabinet in the kitchenette, she found a bottle of Glenlivet whisky with an inch left in the bottom and added it to the steaming coffee.

  "Here's success to Zambezi Waters," she saluted him with the mug. "Now first tell me all about it and then I've got news for you also." Until after midnight he elaborated his plans for her: the development of the twin ranches in the south, the rebuilding of the homestead and the restocking with blood cattle, but mostly he dwelt upon his plans for Zambezi Waters and its wildlife, knowing that that was where her interest would centre.

  "I was thinking I'd need a woman's touch in planning and laying out the camps, not just any woman, but one with an artistic flair and a knowledge and love of the African bush."

  "Craig, if that is meant to describe me, I'm on a grant from the World Wildlife Trust, and I owe them all my time."

  "It wouldn't take up much time," he protested, "just a consultancy. You could fly up for a day whenever you could fit it in." He saw her weaken. "And then, of course, once the camps were running, I'd want you to give a series of lectures and slide, shows of your photographs for the guests- I and he saw that he had touched the right key.

  Likeany artist, she relished an opportunity to exhibit her work.

  "I'm not making any promises," she told him sternly, but they both knew she would do it, and Craig felt his new burden of responsibility tighten appreciably.

  "You said you had news for me," he reminded her at last, grateful for the chance to draw the evening out further.

  But he was not prepared for her sudden change to deadly seriousness.

  "Yes, I've got news," she paused, seemed to gather herself, and then went on, "I have picked up the spoor of the master poacher"

  "My God! The bastard who wiped out those herds of jumbo? That is real news. Where? How?"

  "You know that I have been up in the eastern highlands for the last ten days. What I didn't tell you is that I am running a leopard study in the mountains for the Wildlife Trust. I have people working for me in most of the jeopardy areas of the forest.

  AVe are counting and mapping the ties of the recording their litters and kills, trying territo cats to estimate the effect of the new human influx on them a that sort of thing which me to one o my men.

  He is a marvellously smelly old Shangane poacher, he must be eighty years old and his youngest wife is seventeen and presented him with twins last week. He is a complete rogue, with a tremendous sense of humour, and a taste for Scotch whisky two tots of Glenlivet and he gets talkative.

  We were up in the Vumba mountains, just the two of us in camp, and after the second tot he let it slip that he had been offered two hundred dollars a leopard-skin. They would take as many as he could catch, and they would supply the steel spring traps. I gave him another tot, and learned that the offer had come from a very well-dressed young black, driving a government Land Rover. My old Shangane told the man he was afraid that he would be arrested and sent to gaol, but he was assured that he would be safe. That he would be under the protection of one of the great chiefs in Harare, a comrade minister who had been a famous warrior in the bush war and who still commanded his own private army." There was a hard cardboard folder on the camp-bed.

  Sally-Anne fetched it and placed it in Craig's lap. Craig opened it. The top sheet was a full list of the Zimbabwe Cabinet. Twenty-six names, each with the portfolio set out beside it.

  "We can narrow that down immediately very few of the Cabinet did any actual fighting," Sally-Anne pointed out. "Most of them spent the war in a suite at the Ritz in London or in a guest dacha on the Caspian Sea." She sat down on the cushion beside Craig, reached across and turned to the second sheet.

  "Six names." She pointed. "Six field commanders." still too many," Craig murmured, and saw that Peter Fungabera's name headed the six.

  "We can do better," Sally-Anne agreed. "A private army.

  That must mean dissidents. The dissidents are all Matabele. Their leader would have to be of the same tribe." She turned to the third sheet. On it was a single name.

  "One of the most successful field commanders. Matabele.

  Minister of Tourism, and the Wildlife Department comes under him. It's an old chestnut, but those set to guard a treasure, are too often those who loot it. It all fits." Craig read the name aloud softly, "Tungata Zebiwe," and found that he didn't want it to be true. "But he was with me in the Game Department, he was my ranger-"

  "As I said, the keepers have more opportunity to despoil than any other."

  "But what would Sam do with the money? The master poacher must be coming millions of dollars. Sam lives a very frugal life, everybody knows that, no big house, no expensive cars, no gifts for women nor privately owned land no other expensive indulgences."

  "Except, perhaps, the most expensive of all," Sally-Anne demurred quietly. Tower." Craig's further protestation died unuttered, and she nodded. "Power. Don't you see it, Craig? Running a private army of dissidents takes money, big, big money." Slowly the pattern was shaking itself into place, Craig admitted. Henry Pickering had warned him of an approaching Soviet-backed coup. The Russians had supported the Matabele ZIPRA faction during the war, so their candidate would almost certainly be Matabele.

  Still Craig resisted it, clinging to his memories of the man who had been his-friend, probably the finest friend of his entire lifetime.

  He remembered the essential decency of the man he had then known as Samson Kumalo, the mission-educated Christian of integrity and high principles, who had resigned with Craig from the Game Department when they svspected their immediate superior of being involved in 4*poaching ring. Was he now the master poacher himself? The man of fine compassion who had helped Craig when he was crippled and broken to take his single possession, his yacht, with him when he left Africa. Was he now the power-hungry plotter?