Dark Heart

by Peter Tonkin

  The girls kept clear of the mangroves as they searched the bank, side by side, like children. The bright beam of the Maglite soon illuminated a big pile of ebony shells and Anastasia caught them up without a second thought. As she did so, Ado gave a startled gasp – the closest she would ever come to a scream. Anastasia looked down. There, beneath the pile of shell and weed, a skull was grinning up at them. Without a second thought, Anastasia struck out at it as though it had been a spider or a scorpion. The torch hit it like a bat striking a ball and it rolled back into the slick swirl of the river.

  ‘Hold this,’ ordered Anastasia after a moment, when her breathing returned to normal. Ado took the offered torch and Anastasia pulled the biggest blade out of the Victorinox. With an expert twist, she opened the largest oyster. She pushed the blade on to the glutinous darkness of the creature’s soft body. And both girls gasped again. For the movement of the oyster’s slimy flesh revealed the biggest, blackest pearl that either of them had ever seen.

  They were still crouching, side by side, staring down at the jet-black wonder when the Army of Christ the Infant swept out of the jungle and into the compound behind them.

  FOUR

  Tie

  ‘White,’ said Richard incredulously. ‘You did say white?’

  ‘White!’ confirmed Robin, calling through from her bathroom in their suite in the Granville Royal Lodge hotel. The Nelson Mandela Suite, the best that the five star establishment had to offer. Max Asov and his latest flame were in the presidential suite next door. A couple from the IMF were in the royal suite. These three suites comprised the most exclusive in the hotel. The World Bank rep and the various government middle-rankers also in attendance were travelling without partners so no one’s nose had been put too far out of joint by being offered the slightly less magnificent accommodation on the next floor down. And their teams, like Richard’s Heritage Mariner associates, were scattered through the rest of the world-class hotel’s lower floors.

  ‘Not black?’ Richard insisted, towelling his hair vigorously as he looked glumly down at the bed. Since being driven under armed escort from the airport in a police armoured car with only Dr Holliday and Colonel Kebila for company – except for the squad of soldiers with their Ruger MP-9 semi-automatics – he had checked in and showered, yelling snippets of information through to Robin in her own bathroom next door. The silence in the vehicle had been salutary. And it had frankly come as something of a relief to find that they had pulled up outside the familiar front of Granville Harbour’s premier hotel instead of the equally familiar front of the city’s central police station.

  ‘White!’ snapped Robin now. ‘It’s most specific! That’s why I had the laundry press it, starch it and lay it out for you.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Richard glumly, stepping into his underwear. ‘It’s just as well you brought the monkey suit with the rest of the clobber in the jet.’

  ‘Stop complaining and get a move on,’ called Robin. ‘You’re already well behind schedule, what with your hare-brained airport adventure! From the sound of things it’s a providence that Colonel Kebila rescued you and got you here so fast. We certainly don’t want to be late, even if we do only have to take the lift down to the ballroom. And don’t you dare call it a monkey suit outside these four walls.’

  ‘Penguin suit then,’ allowed Richard. ‘Penguins shouldn’t offend any sensibilities. But still and all,’ he added, sotto voce, ‘white tie!’ He sighed, picking up the starched icy white cotton of his evening shirt and reaching for his white pearl studs. ‘And as it turns out, the scheme at the airport was not hare-brained,’ he called more loudly as he crossed to the mirror and started wrestling his wing collar into place. ‘I learned a hell of a lot that will stand us in good stead when push comes to shove. And I suspect that it was by no means providential that Kebila showed up. I just can’t work out what his game is, that’s all. Nor what Julius Chaka’s game is come to that! White tie and tails! I’ll look like Fred Astaire! What is our beloved president up to?’

  By the time Robin swept out in her basque and suspenders, her golden curls coiffed, her grey eyes exquisitely mascaraed, the rest of her gamin face most carefully made up, slim neck and fingers bejewelled, curvaceous body perfumed and ready to assume the exclusive creation in turquoise silk and sequins that had played Ginger Rogers to Richard’s Fred Astaire outfit on the bed. He had his white braces adjusted, his turn-ups sitting squarely on his patent dancing shoes, his white tie hanging round his wing collar and his white waistcoat ready to be buttoned.

  ‘“I just got an invitation through the mails”’ he sang as he helped Robin step into the dress and then began to settle it into place. ‘“Your presence requested this evening, it’s formal, a top hat, a white tie and tails.”’

  ‘Very funny,’ she said as he pulled ribbons into place between her broad shoulders and her slim waist. ‘I’d like to know what you’re up to, sailor. I never quite trust you when you start singing apropos of nothing. No, don’t tighten those too much, or I’ll burst out of the top like a couple of balloons.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he answered. ‘Maybe we’ll try that later. You know what the sight of you in all those white frilly underthings does to me.’

  ‘Do I ever!’ she answered throatily. ‘Down boy! For the moment at least. And zip me up at the side here!’

  Richard obliged, then crossed to the mirror, picking up his tailcoat, and sang the next section of the song in a baritone more reminiscent of Frank Sinatra than Fred Astaire as he did what it said in the words: tying up his white tie, duding up his shirt front, putting in his shirt studs and brushing off his tails. But his eyes were narrow, and Robin, looking at his reflection, knew that the song was a cover for some very rapid thinking indeed.

  Richard and Robin stepped out of the Nelson Mandela Suite at exactly the moment that Max Asov and his current partner stepped out of their suite and the couple from the IMF stepped out of theirs. ‘Madame Lagrande,’ said Richard, at his most suave, greeting the chic, petite economist with the suggestion of a bow – and a quick smile to her gangly, bespectacled husband. ‘A pleasure to meet you again. Professor Lagrande. You remember Madame Mariner, of course. Have you met Monsieur Asov, Managing Director of Bashnev Power and the Sevmash Shipping Consortium, and his partner Mademoiselle Irina Lavrov?’ Max looked very much the intellectual, with a whisper of the young Trotsky and more than a suggestion of Che Guevara. Everyone was likely to know Irina – to some extent at least. Her kick-ass blockbuster films routinely topped the box office listings if not the Oscar nominations.

  Richard was relieved to see that both Max and Professor Lagrande were also in white tie. Max, surprisingly, looking urbane and at ease; almost as much the intellectual as the pair of topflight economists beside him. Every inch the well-dressed, sophisticated man about town, he even sported a gold watch-chain; an affectation which put to shame Richard’s insistence on staying with his battered but beloved steel-cased Rolex Oyster Perpetual.

  ‘Of course, Captain Mariner,’ answered Claudette Lagrande smoothly in her impeccable Oxford English. ‘It is very pleasant to see you again. Shall we?’ She gestured towards the lift and the doors opened as though at her command.

  They made easy small-talk in the capacious elevator. Professor Lagrande was a fan of Irina’s and he managed to flatter her without being overpowering. Max struck back by turning on the charm and engaging Madame Lagrande in a techno-financial conversation that made Fermat’s last theorem seem positively elementary. ‘So,’ said Robin. ‘The airport. What did you learn?’

  ‘I don’t think the president has managed to pull things round as well as he seems to think . . .’ Richard began to explain.

  ‘But Colonel Kebila pulled your chestnuts out of the fire in the end . . .’ she repeated as he reached the end of his brief explanation.

  ‘And gave us a ride to the front door,’ he confirmed. ‘Full military escort.’

  ‘Hmmm. We?’

  ‘Ah. Didn’t I menti
on Dr Holliday of the World Bank?’

  ‘I see. A doctor. An elderly masculine doctor of economics, I assume? Very much in the mould of Professor Lagrande here?’

  ‘One out of three isn’t bad . . .’ he began, a little sheepishly.

  The doors hissed open and the six of them stepped out into the cavernous magnificence of the Granville Royal Lodge’s newly completed Gala Ballroom. The ballroom seemed to take up one entire level of the hotel. Richard gazed up genuinely impressed by the scale of the architectural vision and the simple efficiency of the civil engineering. Chandeliers hung in widening circles, the gleams from their lustres glimmering white, yellow and blue, as though they were diamonds of the first water. And the light from candle bulbs reflected equally brightly in glassware and silverware on the tables that encircled the huge, waxed, interior-sprung dance floor that matched a gargantuan porthole in the centre of the ceiling, whose massively toughened glass allowed those in the ballroom to look up into the cool blue water of the illuminated swimming pool which lay, miraculously, immediately above them.

  Andre Wanago, the hotel’s urbane manager, greeted the six of them as they stepped out of the lift and escorted them at once to President Chaka who was standing nearby, waiting to greet his guests, flanked by the senior members of his government. Richard scanned the faces of the exclusive group of men, recognizing all of them. The flight down here had not been wasted. The two most important, Minister of State for the Inner Delta and the Minister of State for the Outer Delta, stood at Chaka’s right shoulder. And Colonel Laurent Kebila stood at his left, bringing the reception line to an unexpected end.

  But then, even as the Colonel’s easy presence amongst the most powerful in the land began to sink in – with the realization that Kebila was standing where Richard had expected to see the Minister of Police and Security Affairs – something else struck him. Of the whole group round Chaka, only Kebila was in anything like Western dress – the khaki army uniform with the eagle and stars on his epaulette that stated his rank. All the others were in traditional West African clothing. They were all attired in various versions of the flowing robes known locally as a grand boubou.

  As Andre Wanago gracefully ushered the little group forward, Richard took the opportunity for a swift look around – aided in his endeavour by his excellent eyesight and his considerable height. Yes. There could be very little doubt. All of the locals were wearing traditional – easy, comfortable – dress. Men in the grand boubou robes; women in female equivalent, the m’boubou. All the visitors were in ball gowns or penguin suits, like Andre and his formally attired waiters. So, where the male guests were – perforce – straitjacketed in their costumes of black and white, their hosts were relaxing in a rainbow of patterned silk and cotton.

  Just as the ballroom by its very existence gave a strong message, so did the difference in dress code. The ballroom said, ‘Benin la Bas can do anything Western or Eastern technology can – even when it comes to cutting-edge hotel design.’ And the dress code said, ‘We are an African nation on the African continent. This is now our country and no longer your colony. We belong here as you men in your penguin suits do not. What we have we might share – but you will need to come to us to get any of it.’

  That had been Colonel Laurent Kebila’s message too, of course. He had been watching Richard from the moment he stepped off the Boeing – perhaps from the moment he had bought a ticket under his own name – all it would take was a little Trojan virus in the booking systems of the airlines connecting to Granville Harbour International. This was a twenty-first century state. Security cameras, computer databases, cellphone monitoring systems, secret security services, the lot. Everything one might expect to find in the UK, the USA, the European Union, the Russian federation; except, perhaps, democracy.

  These thoughts were sufficient to take Richard along the reception line until he found himself looking directly into the coolly intelligent eyes of his host. The handshake, too, was cool. ‘Captain Mariner, welcome to Benin la Bas,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant. His English every bit as fluent as his French and Russian had been. His welcome to the man who, more than any other – except for Laurent Kebila, perhaps – had helped to put him where he stood now was, to put it mildly, ambivalent.

  ‘Thank you Mr President,’ answered Richard smoothly. ‘My visit has been most instructive so far.’

  ‘Yes. Colonel Kebila was just telling me. And I’m sure you will find that it continues to be instructive.’ He paused a beat. ‘And profitable.’ He paused another beat as he turned to Robin, his face folding into a broad and charming smile. ‘And pleasurable, of course . . .’

  As it happened, Robin found the meal instructive as much as pleasurable. The instruction started immediately she was shown to her seat. On her right sat Max, with the incandescent Irina beyond him. On her left sat Richard, and beyond him a simply breathtaking young woman with the most arresting cinnamon skin and an accent as deep and dark as molasses. As deep and dark, Robin observed wryly, as the young woman’s eyes; not to mention her cleavage. All of which seemed to be aimed at Richard.

  ‘Darling,’ said her scapegrace husband at his most insouciant, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Dr Bonnie Holliday of the World Bank, have you? Dr Holliday and I met at the airport . . .’

  President Chaka gave a brief speech of general welcome, forbidding all business talk on this occasion, commanding his welcome guests to get to know one another before they began to discuss in more detail why they were here. Discussion that might commence, he suggested, at a series of meetings planned for tomorrow. As Robin already knew Max Asov, and also had a good idea why he was here, and as there was no one opposite her, she focussed her attention on Richard and the dazzling girl who had shared his airport adventure.

  ‘What is it you do at the World Bank, Doctor?’ she asked.

  ‘I am on the East Africa desk at Washington headquarters at 1818 H. The local director is stuck in Abidjan, apparently, so they scooted me out at short notice. I’m not really in finances. My doctorate is in African Studies. But I guess that’s OK because my ultimate boss may have started out at Deloitte but she came to us via Education.’

  ‘African studies,’ said Richard. ‘What school?’

  ‘Harvard.’

  ‘So,’ said Robin, ‘at the very least you’ll be able to guide us safely through dinner. You’ll need to if it’s as traditional as what our hosts are wearing.’

  ‘As safely as your Richard guided me through the airport!’ said Dr Holliday with a dazzling smile.

  Quite, thought Robin, smiling back. MY Richard. And don’t you forget it. Either of you.

  But, as it happened, one section at least of Bonnie Holliday’s PhD was put to good use, for Dr Chaka was seemingly keen to underline the point he had made by asking for his guests to wear white tie. The first course arrived. It consisted of a small plate of cooked rice in the middle of which was spread four lobes of pale nut. Each plate was garnished with a bright red petal or two. ‘This is the traditional West African greeting course—’ said Bonnie.

  ‘I know,’ interrupted Robin. ‘Rice and kola nut. How anything this bitter got into the recipe for Coca-Cola, heaven only knows.’ She cast a sideways glance at Dr Holliday’s curves. ‘Still, it kills the appetite. A useful diet aid.’

  ‘And it’s full of caffeine,’ added Dr Holliday, apparently failing to register the implication of Robin’s comment. ‘And several other stimulants. The locals use it a little like Viagra, so I believe.’

  ‘Right,’ said Richard. ‘I think I’d better just try a little . . .’

  A moment later, he was using sweet palm wine to try and clear his taste buds as the kola nut was replaced by poached oysters. ‘Is it alcoholic?’ he asked, sipping the milky, fragrant liquid carefully.

  ‘Not if it’s sweet and fresh. It gets to about four percent after a day but it starts to taste more vinegary then,’ Dr Holliday explained. ‘The oysters are from the delta, I expect,’ she added. ‘T
hey’re famous all along the coast. There’ll probably be shrimp later too. But Benin la Bas oysters are just so famous, for their flavour and for their . . . qualities . . .’

  ‘More aphrodisiacs,’ riposted Robin. ‘It’s a wonder anyone ever got past the hors d’oeuvres!’

  The doctor giggled, and her date-brown eyes flickered up to meet the cool grey glaze. There was an instant of girl bonding as they shared a knowing grin before the sweet potato and peanut soup arrived.

  Blessedly, the rigour of West African food and drink eased enough to allow a South African Chenin blanc with the Scalopines of Pompano, and the sommelier was even able to find some sparkling Ashbourne Water in the cellars. As Richard sipped this, the fish was replaced by Kyinkyinga, which Bonnie explained were chicken kebabs seasoned with garlic and groundnuts. They were served on rice and Richard for one found them delicious. Fortunately, he was careful not to overindulge, for they were replaced with Egusi soup, which was more like a stew with minced lamb and shrimp on a bed of spinach seasoned with fiery chillies. That was replaced in turn by Boko-Boko – beef roasted in cumin and cinnamon, served on a bed of cracked wheat with plantains in palm oil and okra in greens. A robust Moroccan Shiraz. The Boko-Boko gave way to a light course of fresh shrimps from the outer delta – accompanied by an Algerian white Cabernet – and that in turn was replaced with Jollof rice, with chicken, rice, green beans, onions and carrots stewed together with fresh rosemary, red pepper flakes and nutmeg, partnered with another considerable North African red.

  It was after this, the ninth course by Robin’s reeling calculation, that President Chaka stood and announced a break in the proceedings. ‘Before we introduce such sweetmeats as our famous coconut Shuku-Shuku, our goat’s cheese and paneer, let us pause,’ he began. ‘In our continuing endeavours to entertain our non-African guests . . .’