Ashanti Gold

by James Crosbie

  A minute later they were standing on the inspection platform, watching the conveyer belt sliding past at a comfortable waist-high position. Watty picked up a small hand shovel and held it against the flow of soil. It quickly filled and he presented its contents for Colin’s inspection. ‘There you are! This is the stuff the diamonds come from. Here, have a poke about in it. See if you can spot one.’

  A disappointed Colin looked down at the dross. ‘Are there any diamonds in it?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Could be lucky,’ Watty admitted. ‘But they’ve got to sift through tons of this stuff to get any results.’

  ‘But they do get results?’ Colin persisted. ‘I mean, all this gear,’ he waved a hand that took in the conveyer system, the dump trucks and the distant clutch of buildings. ‘They must find it profitable.’

  ‘Highest quality industrial diamonds in the world,’ Watty told him. ‘It’s profitable all right; high yield, low overheads. We’re doing 100 carats a ton just now, and that’s pretty good.’

  ‘What’s that in normal weight?’

  Watty seemed pleased to talk about it. ‘Diamonds are weighed by the carat, Colin, and there are just five carats to the gramme. Right now we’re getting just over three carats to the ton.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s enough when you’re processing 500 tons of soil a day.’

  ‘And how much is a gramme worth?’

  ‘Around fifty pounds sterling.’ Watty’s reply was succinct.

  ‘More than a hundred and fifty pounds per ton, and you do five hundred tons a day? Jesus!’ Colin gasped, his mind trying to compute the totals. ‘That’s nearly eighty grand a day!’

  ‘About that,’ Watty agreed, stepping down from the platform. ‘C’mon, I’ll show you the finished product.’ He attracted the attention of a dumper driver and they hitched a ride to the diamond company’s permanent buildings.

  *

  ‘This is the security room,’ Watty explained as they entered a brightly lit chamber where half a dozen white-coated African workers were busy sorting and weighing what looked like fine gravel to Colin.

  ‘The diamonds are graded here before being put into the safe. Then once a week they are taken to Accra where the government agent handles their sale and distribution.’

  ‘And is there much in the vault just now?’ Ideas, possibilities, were already forming in Colin’s fertile mind.

  Watty seemed to weigh the question, and for a worrying moment Colin thought he had been too forward.

  ‘What day is it?’ Watty finally asked.

  ‘Wednesday,’ Colin breathed in relief. He too had difficulty remembering the days.

  ‘Three days’ production. That’ll be about two hundred and fifty thousand pounds worth,’ Watty finally said. ‘And that’s to us. The retail price is much higher that that.’

  ‘And they ship them out fairly quickly?’

  ‘Weekly basis.’

  ‘I expect they’re well protected,’ Colin continued to sound offhand. ‘Armed guards and that sort of thing?’

  For the first time Watty hesitated, tilting his head a little to look into Colin’s eyes. ‘Not really,’ he finally answered. ‘Armoured car once a week to Accra. And we keep them here in the vault until it comes.’ He pushed open a door as he spoke. ‘They’re safe enough.’

  Colin’s eyes automatically covered the doorframe for wires or contact studs before he looked across at the safe. ‘It’s a monster of a thing.’ He heard Watty’s voice as his mouth fell open.

  An ancient, double-doored safe, about seven feet tall and four feet wide, dominated the small windowless room.

  ‘Safe as the Bank of England.’ Watty stepped forward and patted it.

  Colin nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He knew the safe – or at least some of its close relatives. A Samuel Withers, circa 1920. Inch-thick sheet metal riveted onto an angle-iron frame, four inches of fireproof packing and a thin inner skin of twelve-gauge metal protecting the inside cavity. A ripper in any cracksman’s language. He let his knuckles rap casually on its side. Yes! The distinctive dull, slightly hollow sound confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘Any cold beer in your office?’ he turned to Watty. ‘I’m drying out in this heat.’

  An hour later he was heading back to Takoradi, the familiar quiver of excitement and challenge once again coursing urgently through his body.

  10

  It took Colin one week to convince himself he could do it, another to prepare. There would be no need to carry any tools; Watty had all the equipment he needed in his workshop and a second reconnaissance trip had familiarised him with the area around the diamond field. One hour after dusk, exactly two weeks since his first visit, he was bumping his car off-road and into the bush a mile south of the diamond field’s security fence.

  Working quickly, he stripped off his light-coloured clothes and donned a dark tracksuit, exchanged his sandals for black trainers and rolled a makeshift balaclava down over his face. Then, taking a pair of wire cutters and a torch from the glove compartment, he was ready.

  There was no moon, but the clear African sky gleamed with stars, providing more than enough light to guide him through the night. At first he felt strange, as though he was walking in a tunnel of silence, the insects and small animals near him falling silent as he passed, whilst those further away continued to screech, croak and cry undisturbed.

  The perimeter fence was no obstacle and with the fields deserted he was soon lowering himself into a shallow depression overlooking the diamond company’s buildings. The office block and workshops were deserted, but there were signs of life coming from the living quarters beyond them, where Colin could see a knot of chattering natives squatting round the entrance of their barracks. Only the distant throb of their music carried to him as he dug himself in and settled down to wait, every sense alert, silent, sweating, watching.

  A few minutes after nine o’clock one of the squatting men rose to his feet, flicked on a torch and began making his way round the buildings. Colin realised that this was the night watchman and was pleased to see him making only perfunctory checks as he punched time clocks at the offices and on the wall of the workshop before returning to rejoin the men outside the barracks. At ten o’clock the man began a second ambling circuit and when he set off again at eleven Colin knew he had the timing right and would know when to expect him.

  The men around the doorway had disappeared inside and all was quiet when the watchman began his midnight round. Fifteen minutes later he returned to the barracks and went inside. Colin rose to his feet as the door slammed and slid towards the buildings. Making an entry to Watty’s workshop was easy, simply pushing a window slat aside and slipping an arm through the gap to turn the handle of the lock. Once inside, working as fast as the judicial use of his torch allowed, he collected the tools he would need and stockpiled them near the door: oxygen and acetylene bottles, along with their pressure gauges and tubes, a burning nozzle, a selection of small tools and a keen-edged knife. It was enough. Sweating profusely, he sat with his back against the door and waited, head slumped between his knees. Suddenly the doorknob rattled and his eyes flew open in alarm. For a split second he almost panicked, then he realised he was safe and breathed easy again. Quickly he rose to his feet and stood back from the window to observe the watchman wend his way to the office block to complete his hourly round. In another five minutes he would be safely back in the barracks.

  Colin gave the man a few extra minutes to settle down before easing open the workshop door. A line of parked trucks provided cover from the barracks and after a careful scan of the area he moved, darting from shadow to shadow until he crouched under a box-like construction of mosquito netting that protected the window of the sorting room. Quickly Colin cut out the wire from the base of the frame, the sharp knife making short work of the fine mesh, and in seconds he had reached inside and forced the window open.

  It took him four sweating, nerve-racking trips to transfer h
is chosen equipment to the window, but by two o’clock he was pushing a large oxygen bottle under the frame of the mosquito netting. It stuck – the gap was too neat. Cursing, he lowered the heavy metal bottle to the ground and glared at the offending woodwork. It was slight enough to break. He could even cut a hole directly in front of the netting and feed the bottles straight in through the window, but either of these ploys would leave visible signs of entry; a dead giveaway to the patrolling watchman.

  Christ! He sank wearily to the ground. He had been certain there was enough room. Suddenly he spotted a wavering beam of torchlight setting off from the barracks and flashed a look at his watch. Almost two o’clock! What had happened to the time?

  Disgusted, he rose to his feet and thumped the wooden framework with his fist – and felt it move. Bending quickly he checked its underside. Only two metal brackets held it to the wall and standing back he saw their twins on the upper strut; only two screws to each bracket. It took as many minutes to free the bottom pair then he stood up and pulled at the frame, gasping in relief when it moved easily outwards. The extra inches were enough and moving quickly he threw the torch, gauges, tools and rubber tubes through the window, hurrying to follow through with the heavy metal bottles before time ran out.

  The bottles weighed over 120 pounds apiece, and it took all of Colin’s strength to push the first one up into the gap, tilting it up until it slid through the open window to land with a dull thump on the coils of tubing already inside. The second bottle went more quickly, but he heard the sharp ‘ping’ of a time clock being used. Urgently he scrambled up and through the window, using precious seconds to reach out and pull the wooden frame tight again. A beam of light turned the corner and he eased the window shut, holding his breath as the watchman sauntered unsuspectingly by.

  Colin’s sigh of relief was audible as he sank to the floor, utterly drained. But time was on his side now and he rested a full fifteen minutes before dragging his equipment into the room that held the safe.

  With the interior door closed, the windowless room allowed Colin free use of the torch and he began setting up his equipment. He tackled the side of the safe, aiming the blue spearhead of flame at a point six inches in from the front edge. The thick skin of many layers of paint blistered and burnt, giving out an acrid stench as the lancing flame incinerated it and cut through the metal underneath. No work at all for an ex-shipyard worker.

  For fifteen minutes he worked at cutting a large section from the side of the safe, coughing and spluttering as the smoke inside the room thickened. Engrossed in his task, he failed to notice a gentle updraught teasing the smoke towards an almost invisible ventilator grille.

  *

  Inside the barracks Joseph Udi crossed and recrossed his legs, trying to defy the demands of his swollen bladder. But he had taken too much Tomba and suddenly he could wait no more. It was a long dark walk to the latrines at the rear of the sleeping quarters and Joseph, bladder at bursting point, staggered from his cot towards the front door.

  ‘Ahhh …’ Relief washed over him as he urinated luxuriously onto the ground in front of the barracks. Finished and still sleepy-eyed, Joseph breathed in the balmy night air, stretching his arms and arching his back in a prodigious, mouth-gaping yawn. Suddenly he was wide awake, staring at a pale column of smoke rising from the roof of the office building. At first he thought it was a night spirit and was afraid. Then a puff of wind moved it and he knew it was smoke.

  ‘Adawa! Adawa!’ He dashed inside the dormitory shouting for the watchman. ‘Adawa! There is fire! Come!’ he screamed, drawing mumbles of reproof from some of the beds. Then Joseph remembered his fire drill.

  *

  The thin metal skin of the inner box offered little resistance to the searing oxyacetylene flame and in seconds Colin had breached the inner cabinet. Smiling through sweat and fatigue, he extinguished the burner.

  Finished! He gloated. What an earner!

  Then a clanging alarm, obscenely loud, shattered the silence.

  Colin froze, paralysed with shock. He stood still for several seconds until self-preservation took over and galvanised him into action. Cursing, he flew to the window, the clamour increasing as he entered the sorting room. From the window he saw a string of half-naked Africans bursting from the barracks, some of them screaming at a man who was furiously clanging on a fire triangle and pointing with his free hand directly at the office building.

  Jesus Christ! Colin exploded through the window and crashed to earth in a shamble of shattered wood and mosquito wire. The group outside the dormitory froze in a snapshot stillness. There was a stunned silence. Then a shout went up like a huntsman’s tally-ho.

  ‘T’iefman! T’iefman!’ Their cries rose loud. Then, like hounds sighting a fox, they surged towards him.

  Colin ran. He ran as he had never run before. With a bare fifty-yard start he knew he had to reach the cover of the diggings to stand any chance of escape from the baying mob behind. Slipping and slithering, he scaled the first steep slope and sprinted into darkness. Behind him he heard the coughing of engines and headlamps slashed the night.

  You would not survive four years in a Ghanaian prison. Yarty Okufu’s words echoed in his head as he changed direction, running now at right angles to his original course, his legs pumping out a steady rhythm. Two hundred yards on, he flung himself into a crater and looked behind. The chasing mob seemed to have gone straight on, following the headlights of the searching trucks. He breathed easier; he could still make it clear. Then he saw two dark shapes trotting along the route he had taken.

  Bastards! He rose to his feet and broke into a run again, breathing hard, tasting blood in his throat as he ran into the darkness. Suddenly something even darker loomed out of the night and he swerved quickly, but too late. Grunting painfully he crashed to the ground, head ringing as he bounced off the conveyer system. Gagging and coughing between heaving breaths, he strove to steady himself and saw his pursuers outlined against the stars. They were less than fifty yards away.

  Unable to stand, Colin rolled forward under the conveyer belt and painfully pulled himself erect. The rapid crunch crunch crunch of approaching feet spurred him on as he used the heavy canvas of the belt to haul himself away.

  The pursuers halted at the conveyer belt and began to jabber at one another as, less than twenty feet away, Colin strained to control his breathing. One of the men went down on his knees and crawled under the belt, making signs for the other man to follow. Colin watched the movement and slid in the opposite direction, putting the barrier between them again, and found himself crouching beside an inspection platform, its darker shadows inviting him to hide. His hunters seemed to be having an argument and he quietly slid into almost total darkness.

  At first Colin was too exhausted to notice, but gradually, as his breathing settled, he became aware of a weight moving against his thigh and shifted slightly. But the weight seemed to follow him, leaning even harder. Then he felt it move, a long, sinuous, gliding motion that sent cold shivers down his spine, and he knew it was a snake. Then the weight slid upwards to settle on his thighs and his breath screeched inwards in a long silent scream. Down to his left his pursuers were coming again.

  The approaching footsteps seemed to irritate the snake and he felt it stiffen, heard its low ‘ssss …’ as it slid over his buttocks and moved onto his back. The footsteps drew closer and he felt a serpentine hump press against him as the snake slithered upwards.

  Paralysed with fear, he stared straight ahead, cringing as the snake slid on to his shoulder. He wanted to scream, felt the need deep in his lungs and began to swallow convulsively to prevent any sound escaping his straining chest. A louder hiss sounded in his ear and the snake slowly slithered into view on the extreme edge of his vision, not six inches from his face.

  ‘If you see a snake, ignore it.’ George had repeated the warning to him a hundred times.

  Not daring to blink, Colin stared fixedly ahead. Concentrate! he told himself. Ignore it!
Concentrate! Sweat flooded his eyes and he blinked, bringing an immediate reaction from the snake. Twin pinpricks of light fixed on him and the black slit of the snake’s mouth hissed wide, exposing long, needle-sharp fangs dripping viscous, poisonous venom. He felt and smelled its alien breath and cringed inside. Then the stalking Africans were on the other side. The serpent swung its head towards this latest intrusion and darted forward, its hissing suddenly loud and angry at this continued invasion of its territory.

  The natives froze. Then suddenly their legs were pumping like pistons as they skittered and skidded in a frantic frenzy of escape. Colin lay motionless, still feeling the snake slither and slide over his shoulder as burning bile burst from his mouth, the nauseous, stinking mess sticking to his mask, forcing him to react again and again. It took a full two minutes for the racking convulsions to cease before he could start thinking clearly again.

  Hurriedly he scurried from under the platform, worried about more snakes and anxious to take stock of his situation. For the moment at least he seemed to be safe. Far off to his left he could see figures outlined against a crescent of headlights focused accusingly on the gap he had cut in the boundary fence. Deciding to do what he thought would be the last thing they would expect, he headed back towards the office buildings.

  *

  Colin ducked his head as a car careered into the yard below. It disgorged two figures that hurried towards the door of the office block, where the night watchman stood guard. Hungrily, Colin eyed the parked car and began his approach, leopard crawling on knees and elbows until he was directly opposite the vehicle.