Wilbur Smith - C08 Golden Fox

by C08 Golden Fox(Lit)

  She had lived as man and wife with Lothar De La Rey in the Johannesburg flat for six marvellously stormy months. When he had ended it suddenly and without warning, she had been shattered. Now she realized that it had been shallow infatuation, nothing to compare even remotely with what she had found in Ramsey Machado. 'I understand completely, Ramsey darling, and you can trust me. I won't ask any more silly questions." 'I have trusted you with my life already,' he said. 'You were the first person I called upon for help." 'I'm proud of that. Because you are Spanish and because you are my lover and the father of my baby, I feel myself to be in a large part Spanish as well. I want to help you any way I am able." "Yes,' he nodded. 'I understand that. I have thought about the baby.' He reached out and touched her stomach, and his hand felt cool and hard. 'I want my son to be born in Spain, so that he, too, will be a Spaniard and his claim to the title will be secured." She was startled. She had taken it for granted that she would have her baby here in London. The gynaecologist had already made a tentative reservation at the maternity home.

  "Will you do that for me, Bella? Will you make my son a full Spaniard? he asked, and she hesitated not a moment longer.

  "Yes, of course, my darling. I will do whatever you wish.' She leant over him and kissed him. Then she snuggled down on the pillow beside him, careful not to jostle his injuries. 'If that is -what you want, then we will have to start making arrangements,' she suggested.

  "I have already done so,' he confessed. 'There is an excellent private clinic just outside Mdlaga. I have a friend at the bank's head office in MAlaga who will find us a flat and a maid. I have arranged a transfer to the head office, so that I will be with you when the baby is born." 'It sounds so exciting,' she agreed. 'And if you get to choose where the baby is to be born, then I choose where we marry when we eventually can.

  That's fair, isn't it?" He smiled. 'Yes, that is fair." 'I want to be married at Weltevreden. There is an old slave church on the estate, built a hundred and fifty years ago. My grandmother, Nana, had it completely restored and renovated for my brother Garry's wedding. It's exquisite, and Nana filled it with flowers for Garry and Holly. I will have arurn lilies. Some people believe that they are unlucky, but they are my favourite flowers and I'm not superstitious, or not much anyway..." Patiently he let her ramble on, occasionally murmuring encouragement, awaiting the precise moment for his next revelation, and she gave him the opening.

  "But we are cutting things a little fine, Ramsey darling. Nana will want at least six weeks to make all the arrangements, and by then I am going to be the size of a house. They'll play the "Baby Elephant Walk" as I come down the aisle." 'No, Bella,' he contradicted her. 'At your wedding, you will be slim and beautiful - because you will no longer be pregnant." She sat bolt upright on the bed. 'What are you trying to tell me, Ramsey.

  Something has happened, hasn't it?" 'Yes. You are right. There is bad news, I'm afraid. I have heard from Natalie. She's still in Florida. She is being obstinate, and there are legal delays." 'Oh, Ramsey!" 'I am as unhappy as you are about it. If there was anything I could do, believe me, I would do it." 'I hate her,' she whispered.

  "Yes, sometimes I feel that way. But truly it is not a disaster, only an inconvenience at the most. We will still be married, and you will still have your little slave church and your arum lilies. It is just that our son will be born before that happens." 'Promise me, Ramsey, swear it to me - that we will be married as soon as you are free." 'I swear it to you." She settled down beside him, cradling her head on his good shoulder, hiding her face so that he could not guess how disappointed she truly was.

  "I hate her, but I love you,' she said, and Ramsey gave a grim little smile of satisfaction that she could not see.

  He was confined to the flat by his wound for another week, and there was time to talk. She told Ramsey about Michael, and was flattered by the interest he showed in her brother.

  She expanded on Michael's virtues, and on their special relationship. Ramsey listened and drew her out gently. He was so easy to talk to. She looked upon him as an extension of herself. She found herself going on to tell him about the rest of her family, about what lay behind the public mask that they as a group presented to the world; about their secrets and their weaknesses and their scandals, about Shasa and Tara's divorce. She even told him about the dark suspicion that Nana had once given birth to a bastard son in the wild southern deserts of Africa.

  "Of course, nobody has ever proved it. I don't think anybody would dare.

  Nana is a formidable force.' She laughed. 'And that is understating the fact. However, there was definitely some very fishy business back there in the nineteen twenties." In the end, Ramsey brought the conversation back to Michael. 'If he's here in London, why haven't you introduced us? Arc you ashamed of me?" 'Oh, may I? May I bring him round here, Ramsey? rve told him a little about you, about us. I know he'd love to meet you, and I'm sure you will like him. He's the only truly sweet and good Courtney. The rest of us... P She rolled her eyes comically.

  Michael arrived with a bottle of his father's burgundy under his arm. 'I thought of bringing flowers,' he explained, 'but then I decided to get something useful instead." He and Ramsey scrutinized each other carefully as they shook hands. Isabella watched them anxiously, willing them to like each other.

  "How are your ribs?' Michael asked. Isabella had told him that Ramsey had taken a toss from his horse and broken three ribs.

  "Your sister is holding me prisoner. There is nothing wrong with me nothing that a glass of that excellent burgundy won't cure.' Ramsey displayed that rare warmth and special charm of his which were irresistible. Isabella felt quite giddy with relief. Her two most favourite and important people were going to like each other.

  She took the burgundy through to the kitchen to find a corkscrew. When she returned with the open bottle and two glasses, Michael was settled in the chair beside the bed and they were already engrossed in conversation. 'We get the airmail edition of your paper, the Golden City Mail, at the bank," Ramsey was telling him. 'I particularly like your financial and economic coverage."

  "Ah, you are in banking,' Michael nodded. 'Bella didn't tell me that." 'Merchant banking. We specialize in sub-Saharan Africa.'And they were away at a conversational gallop. Bella kicked off her flat shoes, rolled up the bottoms of her blue jeans and perched up on the bed beside Ramsey. Although she took no part in the conversation, she listened avidly.

  She had no idea that Ramsey had such a grasp of African facts and realities, such a deep knowledge of the personalities and places and events which made up the rich and fascinating mosaic of her native land. Compared to this discussion, all her previous conversations with him had been shallow and trivial. Listening to the two of them, she learnt new facts and heard ideas expressed that were totally fresh to her.

  Michael was obviously as impressed as she was. His pleasure at finding a challenging and stirhulating intellect on which to try out his own interpretations and beliefs was evident.

  It was after midnight; the original bottle of wine and another that Isabella had dug out of her tiny stock in the kitchen were empty. The bedroom was thick with the smoke of Michael's Camels before she looked at her watch and exclaimed: 'You were invited for one drink, Mickey, and Ramsey is an invalid. Away with you, now.' She went to fetch his overcoat.

  While she helped him into it, Ramsey said softly from the bed: 'If you are doing a series on the political exiles, it wouldn't be complete without one on Raleigh Tabaka." Mickey laughed ruefully. 'I'd give my chance of salvation for a crack at Tabaka, the mystery man. It just ain't possible, as old Rudyard put it, "if you know the track of the morning mist, then you know where his pickets are"." 'I've met him in the line of duty at the bank. We keep tabs on all the players. I might be able to arrange for you to meet him,' Ramsey told him, and Michael froze and stared at him with one arm in the sleeve of his coat.

  -

  "I've been trying to get hold of him for five years,' he said. 'If you could..."
'Call me tomorrow, around lunchtime,'Ramsey told him. "I'll see what I can do." At the door Michael kissed Isabella. 'I take it that you are not coming home tonight?" 'This is home.' She hugged him. 'My temporary residence at Cadogan Square was just to impress you, but I don't have to do that any longer." 'He's a knockout, your Ramsey," Michael said, and she felt a sudden shocking stab of jealousy, as though another woman had challenged her for Ramsey's affection. She tried to suppress it. It was the only ugly feeling she had ever harboured towards Mickey, but the pain persisted as she went back to the bedroom and deepened again as Ramsey said: 'I like him. Your brother is one of the superior beings - they are rare enough." She felt ashamed of her unkind feelings towards Mickey. How could she harbour the slightest doubt that Ramsey was a man, a natural man. She knew that he liked Michael only for his charm and fine intellect, and because he was her brother - and yet, and yet that dirty sneaking feeling persisted.

  She stooped over the bed and kissed Ramsey with a passion that surprised even her. After the first moment of shock, his mouth opened and their tongues slithered and rolled around each other, slippery as mating eels.

  She broke away at last and looked up at him. 'You swan around Europe for weeks on end, leaving me pining, and when you do come home you lie around in bed, hogging food and sleeping,' she accused him in a husky voice, tight with her need of him. 'And never a thought for the maid or the nurse. Well, Master Ramsey, I'm here to tell you it's pay-day, and I've come to collect." 'I'll need some help,' he warned her.

  "You just lie still. Don't do a thing. Nurse's orders. We'll take care of the details." -She drew back the bed-sheets and reached down under them, and her voice was a languorous coo. 'We'll take care of things, he and I. You keep out of it." She straddled him gently, taking care not to touch his bandaged chest. As she sank down on top of him, she saw her own deep need reflected in the green mirror of his eyes, and felt all her doubts evaporate. He belonged to her and to her alone.

  Afterwards she lay at his good side, close and secure and happy, and they talked drowsily, hovering on the edge of sleep in the darkness. When he mentioned Michael again, she felt a twinge of remorse at her earlier doubts. She was so relaxed, so much off-guard, and she trusted Ramsey as she did herself She wanted to explain and share it with him.

  "Poor Mickey, I never suspected the agony he has had to endure all these years. I am closer to him than any person in the world, and yet even I did not know about it. A few days ago, I found out, quite by accident, that he is a practising homosexual.

  The words were out before she could stop them, and suddenly she was appalled by what she had done. Mickey had trusted her, and she shivered, waiting for some reaction from Ramsey. However, it was not what she had expected.

  "Yes,' he agreed calmly. 'I knew that. There are some indications which are unmistakable. I knew it within the first half-hour." She felt a rush of relief. Ramsey had known, so there was no betrayal on her part.

  "You are not repelled by it?" 'No, not at all,' Ramsey answered. 'Many of them are creative and intelligent and productive people." 'Yes, Mickey is like that,' she agreed eagerly. 'I was shocked at first, but now it means little to me. He is still my darling brother. However, I do worry about him being caught up in a criminal prosecution." 'I don't think there is much chance of that. Society has accepted-"

  "You don't understand, Ramsey. Michael likes black boys and he lives in South Africa." 'Yes,' Rarnen agreed thoughtfully. 'That could present some problems."

  Michael phoned the flat from a pay-booth in Fleet Street a little before noon, and Ramsey answered on the second ring.

  "The news is good,' Ramsey assured him. 'Raleigh Tabaka is in London and he knows of you. Did you write a series of newspaper articles back in nineteen sixty under the title "Rage"?" 'Yes, a series of six for the Mail; it got the paper banned by the security police." 'Tabaka read them and liked them. He has agreed to meet you." 'My God, Ramsey. I can't tell you how grateful I am. This is the most marvelous break-" Ramsey cut short his thanks. 'He'll meet you this evening, but he has laid down some conditions." 'Anything,' Michael agreed quickly.

  "You are to come to the meeting alone. No weapons, of course, and no tape-recorder or camera. He does not want his voice or appearance on record. There is a pub in Shepherd's Bush.' He gave Michael the address.

  "Be there at seven this evening. Carry a bunch of flowers - carnations.

  Someone will meet and take you to the rendezvous." 'Right, I've got that." 'One other condition. Tabaka wants to read all your copy on the interview before you print it." Michael was silent for a slow count of five. The request contravened all his journalistic principles. It amounted to a form of censorship and cast a slur on his professional ethics. However, the price was an interview with one of the most wanted men in Africa.

  "All right,' he agreed heavily. 'I'll give him first read."

  And then his tone brightened. 'I owe you a favour, Ramsey. I'll come around and tell you all about it tomorrow evening." 'Don't forget the bottle of wine." Michael rushed back to Cadogan Square. As soon as he reached the telephone he cancelled all the rest of the day's appointments, and then settled down to plan his strategy for the interview. His questions had to be searching, but not so barbed as to cool Tabaka's co-operative mood. He had to be sincere and sympathetic, and yet at the same time, severe, for he was dealing with a man who had deliberately chosen the path of violence and bloodshed. To achieve credibility his questions must be balanced and neutral, and at the same time designed to draw the out. In particular he did not want a mere recital of all the radical slogans and revolutionary jargon.

  "The term "terrorist" is generally applied to a person who for reasons of political coercion commits an act of violence on a target of a non-military nature during which there is a high probability of injury or death being inflicted on innocent bystanders. Do you accept that definition and, if so, does the label "terrorist" apply to Umkhonto we Sizwe?

  He worked that out as his first question, and lit another Camel as he studied it.

  "Good.' That was what you called jumping straight in with both feet, but perhaps it needed a little honing and polishing. He worked on steadily, and by five-thirty he had prepared twenty questions that satisfied him. He made himself a smoked-salmon sandwich and drank a bottle of Guinness while he reviewed and rehearsed his script.

  Then he shrugged on his overcoat, armed himself with the bunch of carnations which he had bought at the comer stall. It was drizzling rain.

  He flagged down a taxi in Sloane Street.

  The pub was steamy with body heat. The condensation ran down the stained-glass windows in rainbow rivulets. Michael displayed the carnations ostentatiously and peered through the soft blue mist of tobacco smoke.

  Almost immediately a neatly dressed Indian in a three-piece blue wool suit left the bar-counter and made his way down the crowded room.

  "Mr. Courtney, my name is Govan." 'From Natal.' Michael recognized the accent.

  "From Stanger.' The man smiled. 'But that was six years ago.' He glanced at the shoulders of Michael's coat. 'Has it stopped raining? Good, we can walk. It's not far." His guide struck out down the main thoroughfare. Within a hundred yards he turned abruptly into a. narrow alleyway and increased his pace. Michael had to trot to match him. He was wheezing when they reached the exit to the alley.

  "Damned fags - I must cut down." Govan turned out of the alley, and stopped abruptly round the corner.

  Michael was about to speak, but Govan gripped his arm to silence him. They waited for five minutes. Only when it was certain that they. were not being followed did he relax his grip.

  "You don't trust me,' Michael smiled, and dumped the carnations in the rubbish-bin that bore a warning of the penalties for littering.

  "We do not trust anybody.' Govan led him away. 'Especially not the Boers.

  They are learning new kinds of nastiness each day." Ten minutes later they stopped again outside a modem block of flats, in a broad well-lit street. T
here was a rank of Mercedes and jaguars parked at the kerb. The lawn and small garden in front of the apartment-block was carefully groomed. It was clearly an expensive residential enclave. 'I will leave you here,' said Govan. 'Go in. There is a porter in the lobby. Tell him that you are a guest of Mr. Kendrick, Flat 505." The lobby was in keeping with the facade of the building, Italian marble floor, wood-panelled walls and gilded doors to the lift. The uniformed porter saluted him. 'Yes, Mr. Courtney, Mr. Kendrick is expecting you. Please go up to the fifth floor."

  . When the lift doors opened, there were two unsmiling young coloured men waiting for him.

  "Come this way, Mr. Courtney." They led him down the carpeted passage to number 505 and let him into the flat.

  As the door closed, they stepped in on each side of him and swiftly but thoroughly patted him down. Michael lifted his arms and spread his legs co-operatively. As they searched him, he looked around him with the journalist's eye. The flat had been decorated with flair and taste, and money.

  His escorts stepped back satisfied, and one of them opened the double doors ahead of him.