Ashanti Gold

by James Crosbie

  For what might have been

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  The mining complex was quiet, the looted earth offering nothing to sustain life. On the steep slope behind the silent workings the last window of the living quarters had long since darkened, with only the pallid, yellow glow of sparse gantry lights betraying the lie of abandonment.

  Four crouching black men inched their sweating bodies deep into the shadow of a shale-heap, their eyes following two armed soldiers as they completed a circuit of the building they were guarding. Artu Koffi, their leader, cocked his head, absorbing the sounds of the night. Then he signed with his hand, sending his men deeper into the shale as the alien whine of an approaching vehicle disturbed the still night air. The noise of the engine grew louder and they sunk even lower, pressing themselves into the loose shale as twin beams of light threw long dark shadows accusingly towards them. Body hugging the ground, Artu carefully raised his head just enough to see the squat shape of an army Land Rover materialise from behind the glare of headlights. He looked at his watch and allowed himself a satisfied smile as the vehicle turned a full circle and crunched to a halt outside the building where the two soldiers had snapped to parade-ground attention.

  Two sergeants, one of them a white man from a special training group, and two privates dismounted from the Land Rover. There was a flurry of stamping boots and shouldered weapons as the sentries were relieved. The black sergeant set the new detail at ease, then easy, before stepping forward with the white sergeant to check the solid-looking door of the squat, windowless building. One of the soldiers going off duty said something to the newcomers and held out a hand. The whites of Artu’s eyes grew big as the new arrival passed over his water bottle; this was something no one had considered. Sweat dampened the ground beneath him as the soldier raised the bottle to his mouth and took a deep, refreshing draught before passing it to his colleague. Blinking against the sweat that suddenly stung his eyes, Artu watched the second soldier take a long, slow pull from the bottle. Then he saw both sergeants walk to the corner of the building and stare along its side. Surely they weren’t going to carry out a full site inspection? Anxiously eyeing the two guards for any signs of sluggishness, Artu willed the sergeants to return to their vehicle, knowing the potion his agent had put in the water bottle was powerful and quick-acting. If the guards fell asleep now, the entire plan would be ruined, and his people desperately needed the gold, their gold.

  He was relieved to see both sergeants returning to the Land Rover and chivvying the tired men aboard. A minute later the sound of its engine was swallowed by the darkness of the night.

  The fresh sentries completed their first circuit and sat down on the verandah, backs against the door, chatting quietly as they passed the water bottle to and fro. Within a few minutes their voices faded and both men seemed to sag lower against the door. Artu grudgingly gave them another two minutes before he and his men moved in.

  Both sentries were out cold and Artu’s men quickly dragged them clear of the doorway. One weapon was kicked aside, the other picked up and cradled in the arms of the man posted as lookout. Two of the men pulled tools from rucksacks and set to work on the heavy, hardwood door, the wrenching, tearing sounds drawing nervous glances from the lookout who watched the buildings on the hill. There was a sharp, louder crack of splintering wood as both crowbars pulled together and the door burst open, allowing the cloying scent of polished floors and woodwork to sweep over them. Artu stepped inside the open doorway, nodding in satisfaction as he stared at the huge iron safe behind the barrier of steel bars that bisected the office. Quickly, he unslung his backpack and ordered his men forward; they had urgent work to perform.

  *

  The barracks of the 4th Ghanaian Rifles lay about six miles to the north of the mine and normally the return to camp was a cheerful, talkative run. Tonight, however, after an initial exchange of banter, both guards sank into an uncharacteristic silence. Sergeant Nunsu, always alert to the moods of his men, looked over his shoulder at them. They seemed tired, almost on the edge of sleep. Still, he reasoned, the mine duty, even at night, was a hot, strength-sapping chore. He glanced at the white sergeant who sat beside him, quietly pleased that his men had been alert at the end of their long stag.

  By the time the Land Rover had turned into the camp gates, privates Joseph Nati and Adame Katey were in a deep sleep. When his second command to dismount was ignored, Sergeant Nunsu became annoyed and pulled Nati roughly by the shoulder, snorting back in surprise when the soldier toppled from his seat and flopped to the floor of the vehicle, dead to the world. He checked for the smell of alcohol but there was nothing. Ganja! The thought leapt into his mind and his face became a mask of anger.

  Two minutes later both unconscious men had been manhandled into the sick-bay and a grumbling nurse rudely wakened from his stolen catnap. The nurse flicked a pen-light in both soldiers’ eyes, took their pulses and checked their blood pressure. Like the sergeant, he dismissed alcohol, but unlike him, he also dismissed ganja. His voice sounded puzzled when he reported to the sergeant that both men appeared to be heavily sedated.

  ‘Sedated?’ Sergeant Nunsu stared blankly at the nurse. ‘How can they be sedated? They have just come off duty at the mine.’

  The tired nurse shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not know how this is so. I only know I speak true.’

  A puzzled Sergeant Nunsu ran his hand across his bullet-smooth head. ‘But they are unconscious … Sedated, you say?’

  ‘I speak true,’ the nurse agreed. ‘Maybe they eat something. Or drink,’ he added.

  Sergeant Nunsu shook his head. ‘They would have eaten hours ago. And their water was finished. I saw the relief guards let them drink from their bottle when they took over.’

  The nurse held his palms out in front of him. ‘So … They take drink and now they are … sedated.’ He looked up from the unconscious men and stared into the suddenly narrowing eyes of the sergeant.

  Despite the heat of the night, an icy chill stabbed through Nunsu’s body. Urgently, he grabbed for a telephone.

  *

  Artu and his men had been working furiously, filling the almost airless room with the musky stink of stale sweat as they laboured at their task. Two of them worked with a car-jack, widening a gap they had made in the steel bars that divided the room in half. Inside the barred area, Artu knelt in front of the large safe, wiping his streaming forehead as he delicately pushed a detonator into the wedge of gelignite he had force fed into the space behind the keyhole. Making certain the detonator was firmly in place, he backed off, paying out the blue touch-cord until he reached the opening in the bars. Quickly, he checked that the narrow gap he had squeezed through ha
d been widened enough to permit a speedy exit. Artu knew that time would be short once the explosion blasted the night apart. But the men had done a good job and he slipped quickly through the gap to join them on the other side.

  The three intruders huddled round the touch-cord and looked along its length, eyes focused on the shiny copper head of the detonator. Artu impatiently waved the other two outside and reached into his pocket for a lighter. Three times his sweat-slicked thumb slid uselessly across the ribbed wheel until finally it gripped and a stream of glowing sparks ignited spurting butane gas. He stared once more at the door of the safe, offered a prayer to his tribal gods and applied the flame, rolling the touch-cord between his fingers as it hissed into fiery life. Carefully, he placed the cord on the floor and watched the sparks dance and splutter towards the detonator in the keyhole of the safe. It was good and he nodded to himself before hurrying outside to join the others.

  The men crouched against the wall of the building in a tense waiting silence, exchanging worried looks, as seconds seemed to drag too long. Suddenly the blast reverberated round the mine-head, echoing off the silent living quarters like a ricocheting shellshot. Momentarily paralysed, they pressed themselves against the wall. Then, as the last echoes died away, they rose and charged into the dust-filled building, the excitement drawing the lookout from his post as he joined them in the rush, jostling and pushing to be the first through the gap in the metal bars.

  The heavy steel door of the safe hung askew and with ecstatic whoops they bounded forward. There were a few seconds of jubilant confusion until Artu’s voice barked out, bringing them to order. Remembering instructions, they quickly helped each other to fill the rucksacks they carried on their backs. The work took only minutes and soon, weighed down with their booty, they headed for the door, anxious now to get away.

  The first man out looked up towards the living quarters, seeing lights flick on in the windows high on the hill. He grinned confidently, knowing that there was plenty of time to reach the shelter of the bush before the first investigators arrived. He was pushed aside as the others crowded out behind him and together they turned towards the shelter of the shale-heaps. There was a shouted command, and instantly a blinding arc of floodlights illuminated the front of the building.

  The four men froze. The sheer volume of light fixed them against the whitewashed wall like dead insects pinned on a display board. Then the armed lookout blazed off a pointless, frustrated shot. The return volley was immediate and murderous. One man’s head disappeared in an eruption of blood, bone and brain matter that splattered high and wide against the wall behind him. A second man was hurled against the building by the explosive force of high-velocity bullets, his chest suddenly spouting blood, his back leaving a vertical, dragging red mess down the wall as he sagged lifeless to the ground. Another man stared unbelievingly at the stump of his right forearm, which was gouting dark arterial blood in a thick, viscous stream. His moans of pain rose to a keening, high-pitched scream as anaesthetising shock faded and agony bit hard.

  Amazingly, Artu Koffi found himself unscathed. He stood, legs apart, arms raised, the whites of his eyes wide with shock as he stared into the blinding brightness. Then he heard the deliberate, measured crunch crunch crunch of approaching footsteps and an army officer came slowly into focus, the round brim of his cap a dark halo against the glaring light. Artu saw the face as the man marched close, noted the narrow lips thinned tight in a sneer of triumph and recognised Judas Akaba, the army captain in charge of mine security. For a long moment the uniformed figure stood smartly to attention, staring calmly at the four men who had dared everything and come so very, very close to success. Then soldiers were running past him to strip the haversacks from the two dead men, ignoring the screams of the wounded man as they tore the straps of his rucksack over his mutilated stump, finally rifle-butting Artu to his knees in order to rip the bag from his back.

  The officer’s voice hissed an order and his soldiers stepped clear, dropping the rucksacks at his feet and turning to point their weapons at Artu and the man still writhing on the ground. The low, cruel voice sounded again, echoed by the sharp, metallic rattle of weapons being cocked. The sound was loud and ominous against the moans of the wounded man.

  ‘No! No!’ The white sergeant burst into the pool of light. ‘No! No!’ he shouted again, breaking into a run. ‘They’ve surren …’

  A fusillade of machine-gun fire drowned his voice and he stumbled to an impotent halt as bullets smashed into fragile flesh, sending limbs flailing wildly as the living joined the dead.

  Captain Akaba stepped forward, bending to lift the flap of one of the rucksacks. Slowly, deliberately, he allowed its contents to spill out into the glaring light, forcing an involuntary gasp from the wide-eyed soldiers. Artu Koffi stared with fast-failing eyes at his people’s birthright gleaming on the ground before him. Then, painfully, slowly, he raised his head to look into the merciless eyes of Judas Akaba.

  ‘One day …’ he dredged up the last strength of the dying man he was. ‘One day our gold will return to the Ashanti people. One day.’ He fell back gasping for breath, the gleam of gold reflected in his dying eyes. He was unaware of Akaba drawing his sidearm, already dead when the heavy 9mm bullet smashed into his skull.

  ‘You murdering bastard!’ The white sergeant swung his fist at the grinning Akaba.

  1

  Colin Grant felt the morning air knife through his clothing and shivered as a flurry of cold January wind buffeted him. The wicket gate slammed shut and he heard the metallic clatter of its lock being thrown, the underlining clash as the bolt slammed home. Familiar, nerve-jarring sounds, yet somehow they sounded different this time, and he felt no urge to turn. Chin raised, eyes half-closed, he leant back and slowly inhaled, feeling the cold, fresh, free air invade his long starved lungs. Yes! It felt good! And his senses, after years of stifled strangulation, were suddenly alive again. He became conscious of his chest swelling against the clean, soft material of a white linen shirt and he breathed again, more deeply this time, as he quite literally enjoyed the taste of freedom. Four years, he thought. Four years of breathing in the stink of prison. He tasted the air again, turning his head slowly from left to right, savouring the unfamiliar smell of wet leaves on a cold winter’s morning. The freshness almost stung his eyes to tears.

  ‘Oi!’ He heard a yell from the Judas grille in the door. ‘What’s up Grant? Nowhere to go?’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Colin tossed the word over his shoulder, following it with an insolent finger jab, eloquent in its casual contempt.

  ‘Less of that Grant.’ The voice was suddenly brisk with authority. ‘You’re still on prison property. On yer bike or I’ll have you back inside again. Move!’

  Colin spun round, body tensed, chin taut, eyes suddenly flashing anger as he glared at the face behind the grille. ‘You’ll have fuck all again, mister!’ he snapped back, pushing his face up to the grille. ‘Want to try?’ he challenged, stepping back, making room for the screw to step out as he flexed his lean, well muscled shoulders.

  A furrow of doubt creased the screw’s forehead above suddenly wary eyes.

  ‘Come on then!’ Colin invited him with his hand. ‘Come on. Come and get me. Let’s see how you manage on my side of the wall.’

  ‘On your way, Grant.’ The screw’s voice was subdued, his face drawn back from the grille as if he feared some kind of attack. Colin shook his head in disgust and turned away to step out to freedom, feet strangely light in unfamiliar civvy shoes. His step became livelier the further he left the prison gate behind until, reaching the end of the drive, he stopped to look back at the blackened architectural scab that was Wandsworth prison.

  ‘Beat you!’ He spat the words out loud at the bleak, brooding walls and glared angrily at the gates, remembering some of the harder times he had endured behind them. Then the tightened muscles of his face relaxed in a slow smile of achievement.

  Beat you! For the first time in years, he felt some
of his old natural exuberance bubbling up and it was all he could do to prevent himself from yelling out in sheer exhilaration.

  Colin had yelled out many times during his thirty-six years of life – when he first saw the light of day in a dingy Glasgow tenement where, despite knowing nothing but the barest essentials, he grew up an attractive, if rebellious, lad. Again, when he discovered the joy of winning, whether it was a playground fight or a game. And again, when he left the restrictions of school behind him to take up the adventure of shipyard working, keen to learn a trade and contribute towards the upkeep of the neat two-bedroom tenement flat he shared with his widowed mother.

  For more than three years he had been conscientious at his work and content at home. Then the world’s shipping surplus began to bite. A series of mergers and big-business takeovers saw his job disappear as recession, rationalisation and redundancy became familiar words in the working man’s vocabulary. At just eighteen he had found himself in the dole queue, facing a life of unemployment. Soon after that his mother had died – viral infection, they said. Silent in his grief, he began to question the fairness of it all. Was he to live and die on government handouts? Signing on every week for his dole money … sliding deeper and deeper into despair? To do nothing and own nothing in this life but cheap clothes and some sticks of chain-store furniture? Deep inside he yelled rebellion.

  With his mother gone, there was nothing to keep him in Scotland and a week after the funeral, with only an aunt in Greenock, an uncle abroad, and unemployment in Glasgow, he had accepted £100 from a vulture furniture dealer for the contents of the flat. That same day he packed his bags and like thousands of hopefuls before him took the high road to London.

  Life in the capital was an adventure at first, but rents were high and shipyard welders in low demand in central London. Within a month he had been thrown out of his digs, his promises to pay when he found work worthless currency in the grasping city.