"A man with force behind him."
"The Third Brigade," the Russian nodded, "and the blessing of the people of the USSR. However," he paused significantly, 'two questions need answers, Comrade General."
"Yes?"
"The first is a mundane and distasteful question to raise between men such as you and I money. My paymasters become restless. Our expenses have begun to exceed by a considerable amount the shipments of ivory and animal products that you have sent us-" He held up his hand again to forestall argument. It was an old man's hand, dappled with withered dark spots and crisscrossed with prominent blue veins. "I know that we should do these things merely for the love of freedom, that money is a capitalist obscenity, but nothing is perfect in this world. In short, Comrade General, you are reaching the limits that Moscow has set on your credit."
"I understand," Peter Fungabera nodded. "What is your second question?"
"The Matabele tribe. They are a warlike and difficult people. I know that you have been forced to stir up enmity, to cause dissension and strife and to bring upon the present government the disapproval of the Western powers by your campaign in Matabeleland. But what happens afterwards?
How do you control them once you yourself have seized power?
(I " est ions with a single name, Peter answer both qu Fungabera. replied.
"Me name?"
"Tungata Zebiwe."
"Ha! Yes! Tungata Zebiwe. The Matabele leader. You had him put away. I presumed that by now he had been liquidated."
"I am holding him in great secrecy and safety at one of my rehabilitation centres near here."
"Explain."
"Firstly, the money."
"From what we know, Tungata Zebiwe is not a rich man," the Russian demurred.
"He has the key to a fortune which might easily exceed two hundred million US dollars." The Russian raised a silver eyebrow in the gesture of disbelief that Peter was coming to know well, and which was beginning to irritate him.
"Diamonds," he said.
"The mother country is one of the world's largest Producers. "The Russian spread his hands disparagingly.
"Not industrial rubbish, not black boart, but gem stones of the first water, large stones, huge stones, some of the finest ever mined anywhere." The Russian looked thoughtful. "if it is true-"
"It is true! But I will not explain further. Not yet."
"Very well. At least I can hold out some sort of promise to the money-sucking leeches in our treasury department?
And the second question. The Matabele? You cannot plan to 0 blite rate them, man, woman and child?" Peter Fungabera shook his head regretfully. "No. Though it would be the better way, America and Britain would not allow it. No, my answer is Tungata Zebiwe again. When I take over the country, he will reappear it will be almost miraculous. He will come back from the dead. The Mota
,
bele tribe will go wild with joy and relief They will follow him, they will dote upon him, and I will make him my vice-president."
"He hates you. You destroyed him. If you ever free him, he will seek to revenge that."
"No," Peter shook his head. "I will send him to you. You have special clinics for difficult cases, do you not? Institutes where a mentally sick man can be treated with drugs and other techniques to make him rational and reasonable once more?" This time the Russian actually began to chortle, and he poured himself another vodka, shaking with silent laughter. When he looked up at Peter, there was respect in those pale eyes for the first time.
"I drink to you, Monomatapa of Zimbabwe, may you reign a thousand years!" He set down his glass and turned to stare down the long open vlei to the distant waterhole. A herd of zebra had down to drink. They were nervous and skitti come st, for the lions lie in ambush at the water. At last they waded in, knee, deep and in a single rank, dipped their lips to touch the surface in unison. They formed an overlapping frieze of identical heads like an infinity of mirror images until the old stallion sentinel snorted in nervous alarm and the pattern exploded in foaming water and wildly galloping forms.
"The treatment of which you speak is drastic." Colonel Bukharin watched the zebra herd tear away into the forest.
"Some patients do not survive it. Those that do are-" he searched for the word" altered."
"Their minds are destroyed." Peter said it for him.
"In plain terms yes," the colonel nodded.
"I need his body, not his brain. I need a puppet, not a human being."
"We can arrange that. When will you send him to us?" The diamonds first," Prter rep lied.
"Of course, the diamd Ids first. How long will that take?" Peter shrugged-_'.1,&t long."
"When you are ready I will send a doctor to you, with the appropriate medications. We can bring this Tungata Zebiwe out on the same route as the ivory: Air Zimbabwe to Danes-Salaam and one of our freighters from there to Odessa." "Agreed."
"You say that he is being held near here? I would like to see him."
ri
"Is it wise?"
"Indulge me, pleaseP From Colonel Bukharin it was an order rather than a request.
ungata Zebiwe stood in the flat white glare of the noonday sun. He stood facing a whitewashed wall that caught the sun's rays and flung them back likea huge mirror. He had stood there since before the rise of the sun, when the frost had crusted the sparse brown grass at the edge of the parade ground.
Tungata was stark naked, as were the two men that flanked him. All three of them were so thin that every rib showed clearly, and the crests of their spines stood out like the beads of a rosary down the centre of their backs.
Tungata had his eyes closed to slits to keep out the glare of sunlight off the wall, but he concentrated on a mark in the plaster to counter the effects of giddy vertigo which had already toppled the men on each side of him more than once. Only heavy lashing by the guards had forced them to their feet again. They were still swaying and reeling as they stood.
"Courage, my brothers," Tungata whispered in Sinde, bele. "Do not let the Shana dogs see you beaten." He was determined not to collapse, and he stared at the dimple in the wall. It was the mark of a bullet strike, painted over with lime wash They lime washed the wall after every execution they were meticulous about it.
"Anwnzi," husked the man on his right, "water! "Do not think of it," Tungata. ordered him. "Do not speak of it, or it will drive you mad." The heat came off the wall in waves that struck with physical weight.
"I am blind," whispered the second man. "I cannot see."
The white glare had seared his eyeballs like snow blindness.
"There is nothing to see but the hideous faces of Shana Tungata told him. "Be thankful for your blindness, apes, friend." Suddenly from behind them brusque orders were shouted in Shana and then came the tramp of feet from across the parade ground.
"They are coming," whispered the blinded Matabele, and Tungata. Zebiwe felt a vast regret arising within him.
Yes, they were coming at last. This time for him.
During every day of the long weeks of his imprisonment, he had heard the tramp of the firing-squad crossing the parade ground at noon.
This time it was for him. He did not fear death, but he was saddened by it. He was sad that he had not been able to help his people in their terrible distress, he was saddened that he would never see again his woman, and that she would never bear him the son for whom he longed. He was sad that his life which had promised so much would end before it had delivered up its fruits, and he thought suddenly of a day long ago when he had stood at his grandfather's side and looked out over the maize fields that had been scythed by a brief and furious hail-storm.
"All that work for nothing, what a waste!" his grandfather had murmured, id Tungata repeated his words softly to himself as ru* hands turned him and hustled him to the wooden stake-'set in the ground before the wall.
They tied his wrists to the stake and he opened his eyes fully. His relief ftorn the glare of the wall was soured by the sig
ht of the rank of armed men who faced him.
They brought the two other naked Matabele from the wall. The blind one fell to his knees, weak with exposure and terror, and his bowels voided involuntarily. The guards laughed and exclaimed with disgust.
"Stand up!" Tungata ordered him harshly. "Die on your feet likea true son of Mashobane! The man struggled back to his feet.
"Walk to the stake," Tungata ordered. "It is a little to your left." The man went, groping blindly, and found the stake.
They bound him to it.
There were eight men in the firing-squad and the commander was a captain in the Third Brigade. He went slowly down the rank of executioners, taking each rifle and checking the load. He made little jokes in Shana that Tungata could not follow, and his men laughed. Their laughter had an unrestrained quality, like men who had taken alcohol or drugs. They had done this work before, and enjoyed it. Tungata had known many men like them during the war; violence and blood had become their addictions.
The captain came back to the head of the rank, and from his breast-pocket took a sheet of typescript which was grubby and dog-eared from much handling. He read from it, stumbling over the words and mispronouncing them likea schoolboy, his English only barely intelligible.
"You have been condemned as enemies of the state and the people," he read. "You have been declared incorrigible.
Your death warrant has been approved by the vice president of the Republic of Zimbabwe-" Tungata Zebiwe lifted his chin and began to sing. His voice soared, deep and beautiful, drowning out the thin tones of the Shana captain: "The Moles are beneath the earth, "Are they dead?" asked the daughters of Mashobane." He sang the ancient fighting song of the Matabele, and at the end Of the first verse he snarled at the two condemned men who flanked him.
sing! Let the Shana jackals hear the Matabele lion grow And they sang with him: "Like the black mamba from under a stone We milked death with a fang of silver steel-" Facing them, the captain gave an order, and as one man the squad advanced a right foot and lifted their rifles.
Tungata sang on, staring into their eyes, defying them, and the men beside him fed on his courage and their voices firmed. A second order and the rifles were levelled. The eyes of the executioners peered over the sights, and the three naked Matabele sang on in the sunlight.
Now, marvellously, there was the sound of other voices, distant voices, lifted in the war song. They came from the prison huts beyond the parade ground. Hundreds of imprisoned Matabele were singing with them, sharing the moment of their deaths, giving them strength and comfort.
The Shana captain lifted his right hand, and in the last instants of his life Tijngata's sadness fell away to be replaced by a soaring pride. These are men, he thought, with or without me they will resist the tyrant.
The captain brought his hand down sharply, as he bellowed the command. "Fire! The volley was simultaneous. The line of executioners swayed to the sharp recoil of rifles and the blast dinned in on Tungata's eardrums so that he flinched involuntarily.
He heard the vicious slap of bullets into living flesh, and from the corners of his vision saw the men beside him jerk as though from the blows of invisible sledgehammers, and then fall forward against their bonds. The song was cut off abruptly on their lips. Yet the song still poured from Tungata's throat and he stood erect.
The riflemen lowered their weapons, laughing and nudging each other as though at some grand joke. From the prison huts the war song had changed to the dismal ululation of mourning, and now at last Tungata's voice dried and he faltered into silence.
He turned his head and looked at the men beside him.
They had shared the volley between them, and their torsos Were riddled with shot. Already the flies were swarming to the wounds.
Now suddenly Tungata's knees began to buckle, and he felt his sphincter loosening. He fought his body, hating its weakness. Gradually, he brought it under control.
The Shana captain came to stand in front of him and said in English, "Good joke, hey? Heavy, man, heavy!" and grinned delightedly.
Then he turned and shouted, "Bring water, quickly!" A trooper brought an enamel dish, brimming with clear water, and the captain took it from him. Tungata could smell the water. It is said that the little Bushmen can smell water at a distance of many miles, but he had not truly believed it until now. The water smelled sweet as a freshly sliced honeydew melon, and his throat convulsed in a spasmodic swallowing reflex. He could not take his eyes off the dish.
The captain lifted the dish with both hands to his own lips and took a mouthful, then he rinsed his mouth and gargled with it noisily. He spat the mouthful and grinned at Tungata, then held the dish up before his face. Slowly and deliberately he tipped the dish and the water spilled into the dust at Tungata's feet. It splashed his legs to the knees. Each drop felt cold as ice chips and every cell Of Tungata's body craved for it with a strength that was almost madness. The captain inverted the dish and let the last drops fall.
"Heavy, man!" he repeated mindlessly, and turned to shout an order at his men. They doubled away across the parade ground, leaving Tungata alone with the dead and the flies.
They came for him at sunset. When they cut his wrist bonds, he groaned involuntarily at the agonizing rush of fresh blood into his swollen hands, and fell to his knees.
His legs could not support him. They had to half-carry him to his hut.
The room was bare, except for an uncovered toilet bucket in the corner and two bowls in the centre of the baked-mud floor. One dish contained a pint of water, the other a handful of stiff white maize cake. The cake was heavily oversalted. On the morrow, he would pay for eating it in the heavy coin of thirst, but he had to have strength.
He drank half the water and set the rest aside for the morning, and then he stretched out on the bare floor Residual heat beat down on him from the corrugated iron roof, but by morning he knew he would be shivering with cold. He ached in every joint of his body, and his head pounded with the effects of the sun and the glare until he thought his skull would pop likea ripe cream of tartar pod on a baobab tree.
Outside in the darkness beyond the wire, the hyena packs disputed the feast that had been laid for them. Their cries and howls were a lunatic bedlam of greed, punctuated by the crunch of bone in great jaws.
Despite it all, Tungata slept, and woke to the tramp of feet and shouted orders in the dawn. Swiftly he gulped down the remains of the' Water to fortify himself, and then squatted over the bucket. His body had so nearly played him false the day before. He would not let it happen today.
The door was flung open.
"Out, you Matabele dog! Out of your stinking kennelP They marched him back to the wall. There were three other naked Matabele facing it already. Irrelevantly he noticed that they had lime washed the wall. They were very conscientious about that. He stood with his face two feet from the pristine white surface and steeled himself for the day ahead.
They shot the three other prisoners at noon. This time Tungata could not lead them in the singing. He tried, but his throat closed up on him. By the middle of the afternoon, his vision was breaking up into patches of darkness and stabbing white light. However, every time his legs collapsed and he fell forward against his bound wrists, the. pain in his shoulder sockets as his am-Ls twisted upwards revived him.
The thirst was unspeakable.
The patches of darkness in his head became deeper and lasted longer, the pain could no longer revive him completely. Out of one of the dark areas a voice spoke.
Leopard Hunts in Darkness b-4 Page 36
