Wings of the Morning

by Julian Beale

  They had gathered at The Mansion House on a blustery day in late March. There were nine of them. Aischa was with David, Alexa and Hugh had flown in from Hong Kong, Conrad alone, Pente from Northumberland and King from Grosvenor Square. Martin was there, and finally Ursula Hampton, David’s PA and close friend.

  David had assembled them for a business meeting, saying there would be a sandwich lunch with tea and drinks later. He wasted no time in getting started.

  ‘It’s good to see you all. I expect you’re wondering why you’re here and at least that’s easy to answer. You‘re important people to me: my best friends, with whom I’ve shared a lot of years. What’s more, you’ve each got experience and expertise which I need. I have a Grand Plan, you see, which I want to share with you. Afterwards, I want your reactions.

  ‘Now I just have to set the scene. I want to talk to you about Africa which has been my business, my heart and soul for the last thirty years. I love Africa, you all know that, but the fact is that the continent has been going backwards for all the years I’ve been travelling there. Let me give you a tour around as we sit here.

  ‘There are some bright spots. South Africa may be one of them and what a bonus to win the Rugby World Cup last year. But Nelson Mandela is only one man, even if a saint with wisdom. He can’t do it all himself. I worry about what comes next.

  ‘Developments are pretty good in Ghana and I think the pace will be sustained under Rawlings. The world view of Museveni in Uganda is positive: he can’t do worse than Idi Amin. Stable times continue in Cameroun, and there’s good growth in Senegal. Chissano has ended the civil war in Mozambique and the refugees are coming home. There is great potential in Angola. Kenya is ... well OK, but Tanzania is nothing like what it should be. Nigeria is the curate’s egg — good in parts.

  ‘So there are nuggets of encouragement, but taken overall, it’s not a terrific record since Macmillan started us talking about the Wind of Change thirty-five years ago. And that’s before you start looking at the other side of the ledger.

  ‘In the north, Chad and the Central African Republic are landlocked, remote and desperately poor. Nigeria is under a despot, so is Zaire which should be the richest state on the continent. Mobutu is a sick man who can’t last long and there’ll be a bloodbath to follow. There’s the wretched history of the Rwanda genocide which the world stood by to watch. Zimbabwe is on the road to ruin. Sudan is divided in itself and ruthless in its squabbles with worse to come. On the East and West coasts you have Somalia and Equatorial Guinea, two regimes which are a byword for basket case.

  ‘I could go on, but this isn’t a lecture and you get my point. Fifty years of transition from colonial rule to Independence and we don’t have one single success story to show for it. Not one. So what do we have? I put it this way. If the whole continent was a company, then the directors would be due for the chop. The results speak for themselves. Sales down, profits down, assets devalued, infrastructure crumbled. People numbers way up, their welfare and skills down through the floor. Morale? Don’t even ask.

  ‘There’s more too, but outside the commercial analogy. Clear across the continent there’s torture, graft, corruption of every kind, wilful incompetence on a scale to beggar belief.

  ‘So what’s the rest of the world doing about this desecration? Well, we’re just about past propping up puppet regimes. We wring our hands and chuck more money at the extreme problems. We update our language and call Africa “developing” rather than “third world”. Otherwise we shrug it off, expect nothing and hope for better. And that works in a way. Look at us around this table. Connie’s Bastion business is flourishing, The Mansion House is going great guns, Pente isn’t running out of souls to save ... etc.’

  David paused for a minute while his eyes drifted slowly round his audience. Then he resumed.

  ‘I’m fifty-three now. I can go on for another ten, maybe fifteen years and I’m sure there will be another business lifetime for those coming after me. But I’ve decided that’s just not good enough. Not for me. I’m sick of picking the good bits out of a decaying carcass. I’ve had enough of loitering on the sidelines, watching all the castles crumble and listening to the statesmen prosing. I want to spend the rest of my time in regeneration.

  ‘There’s simply got to be a better way forward for Africa: a clean sheet and a fresh start somewhere. But how do you manage that? There’s no part left unexplored, no unclaimed territory to settle. You can try to influence events and you can buy people and politicians. But you can’t buy sovereignty.

  ‘The remaining option is acquisition: a takeover. That’s what I propose to do.’

  He sat back in his chair and picked up his cup of coffee.

  There was a stunned silence which overlaid the background noises of Martin fiddling with a spoon and the rasp of Pente’s lighter. King Offenbach was first to react.

  ‘Say, David, this is kinda momentous stuff isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes it is. It’s tough to spring it on you like this King, and that goes for Connie and Pente too. For different reasons, I’ve spoken to the others already but the basic concept has been revolving in my mind for years now.’

  Pente puffed a cloud of cigar smoke and tugged at his beard.

  ‘David’, he said frowning, ‘I’m really not understanding this. I’ve known you most of my life, and you’re not one for the grand announcement. Normally it’s quite a job to dig things out of you, and yet here you are sounding like a politician at the hustings, setting out your stall. And what a proposition! Are you honestly serious? You’re planning a coup d’état?’

  ‘Pente, you’ve been yourself where I am now. It’s all about when you recognise that here comes your opportunity and then you have a choice: walk away forever, or stand up to be counted. So yes, I am planning a coup d’état, but aiming for a coup de maître. That’s not to split hairs. I want a master stroke — swift, sure and with minimum casualties’.

  ‘But still some?’

  ‘Inevitably, I’m afraid.’

  There was a heavy silence in the room.

  David felt the tension around him. There was surprise, a sense of disbelief, but also unhappiness, animosity. He was helped by an intervention from Aischa.

  ‘I am the only one amongst you to have been born a child of Africa. I should therefore care the most but probably I worry the least over the principle at stake. In Africa, every country was colonised and most gained independence leading to internal strife. So history makes us accustomed to change and tolerant of some new chief coming in. It doesn’t bother us greatly unless we’re placed in extreme danger or great discomfort, and those two often go together. We’re cynical, you see, we’ve heard all the great promises before. But we’re patient and resilient as well. We get by. If someone like David wants to bring in change, Mr Average is likely to say “Oh yeah? I’ll believe that when I can feel it, but bring it on anyway and let’s have a look.”

  ‘There’s something else. The two most important men in my life are my father and my David. They’re both fixated with the need for something new. My father’s day is almost done but I think his spirit is carrying on with David. That gives me a very personal reason to support this, but speaking just as another African, I think I’d be willing to give it a try.’

  King Offenbach came back at her, sounding less than convinced.

  ‘You sure about that last bit, Aischa? It sounds a mite casual to me, and when all’s said and done, you’re not just another African even if you were born there.’

  Before Aischa could reply, Alexa had an answer for him.

  ‘King, you’ve told me about your childhood. Would your mother have cared who was in the White House when she was struggling with kids and bills?’

  ‘It’s a fair point,’ said Hugh supporting her, ‘and Aischa’s right too. None of us here live on the breadline. We don’t have to think before popping into the supermarket or putting petrol in the car. So we don’t have the same priorities as a destitute family in Africa
, — or one in Manila or Jakarta or Vietnam let me tell you. Wherever in the world, if wondering where the next drink is coming from means simply finding fresh water, then you’re struggling through a life which none of us have experienced.’

  David wanted to hear what Connie had to say, but it was Martin who chipped in first.

  ‘I’ve had more warning of this,’ he said, ‘because David had to think of the implications to our business. If he goes ahead, he’ll have to sever all connections with The Mansion House and that has consequences for me as much as for him. I can’t say I’m delighted at the prospect. The company is doing very well and of course, it’s a large part of our lives. My role is to keep the books here and I’ve never crossed the coastline of Africa in my life. So my first reaction was, why give up so much for such an uncertain future? Why take such an enormous risk which is certain to cost your reputation, probably your health and perhaps your life? Why?

  ‘I talked it over with Ruth and she had good advice: she generally does. Think of how your father would have reacted, she said, so I’ve done that and come to a reluctant conclusion that he would have supported David. He was a great one for tilting at windmills, was my Dad, and he had enough horrors in his own life to know you must sometimes think the unthinkable.’

  King came back to ask, ‘Why have you got us together, David? Is it just for support? For approval? And why now?’

  Pente nodded in agreement. Conrad was unmoving.

  David replied, ‘You’re my friends, King, and you’re my family: of course I’d like your support, but I want advice as well and each of you is a vital asset. As to timing, let me tell you more.’

  He was interrupted by Conrad pushing back his chair. He rose and stood looking at David.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘don’t do that. I don’t want to know more and I wish I hadn’t heard this much. I’m entirely opposed to this wholly madcap scheme. You’ve been too long in the African sun, David and it’s taken your mind and your morals. I’m pretty sure your plan is impossible in execution, but anyway it’s indefensible in concept. How can you have the arrogance to assume that you know best? How dare you think that you should reorder the lives of an entire population? What gives you the right? What’s the difference between this and Saddam’s move into Kuwait? You’ve made no mention of rights and respect; apparently you have no concerns for international law or democratic values. Are you really expecting the rest of the world to stand aside and welcome in some sort of latter day buccaneer? And after your example, who next? I suppose we should expect some Mafioso or maybe a Columbian drug baron to start helping themselves to their own patch somewhere and bugger the locals.

  ‘It’s appalling, the very idea of it. I’m surprised, Pente, that you don’t seem as outraged as I am. I’ve really got the same comment for you also, King. And as for you, Hugh, I may admire your achievements, but you really can’t go zooming round the world just buying up what you fancy. I think you and David should both recognise that you live in this world, warts and all, but not above it.’

  Across the table, Alexa jumped as if she had been stung. Three men of monumental importance to her and it looked like war was breaking out.

  ‘Connie....’ she began, but he cut her off with a sweep of his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s not me provoking this rift, but as far as I’m concerned there’s no more to be said. Not now or ever for me. I’ll keep my peace because of our past together, but I want nothing more to do with this. It’s just so wrong.’

  He walked swiftly from the room and did not look back.

  Mute silence followed his exit.

  Hugh sat back in his chair and reached for a glass of water. Pente’s hand hovered over his cigar box. King studied his fingernails. David waited. Finally, he stretched both hands out in front of him to grip the table top and he spoke more mildly than he felt.

  ‘Well. That was certainly not what I expected. Not what I wanted either,’ and then to the world at large he added, ‘I wonder where the hell I go from here.’

  Before anyone could respond, Alexa rose and slipped away.

  Hugh commented immediately, ‘I expect she’s gone to ring Tepee. She could do with some warning and perhaps she’ll calm him down. I’m sorry about this David.’

  Aischa signalled to Ursula and they got up together to organise some tea. Martin excused himself to check on things in his office, a shorthand for getting out of the atmosphere for a break. Hugh sat quietly to reflect. He had no doubt that Conrad’s feelings were genuine, but he suspected an additional agenda. He had felt a bit of animosity from Connie, a resentment that his long established relationship with David was under threat from him.

  Pente lit one of his cigars and climbed out of his seat to stalk around the room. As he walked, he prayed. They could use some help here. King was motionless as he watched David. The guy could use a little space.

  The three men remaining at the table sat on in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts. There was no self doubt in David. He was shocked by Connie’s outburst, but still as sure as ever. He was right. This was his crusade and he was committed to it.

  The tableau was preserved for a further five minutes until tea and drinks arrived. They served themselves and were seated again, Connie’s chair eloquently empty, as Alexa reappeared to flash a worried smile as she took her place beside Hugh. She was followed into the room by Martin, who remained standing.

  David said, ‘Look all of you, that was bad. I asked for reaction and I didn’t expect Connie’s, so now I feel like he’s been banished. Why don’t we wind things up now and I’ll call you.’

  ‘Just hold on there, David,’ the interruption came from King, gesticulating with his elegant forefinger, ‘I do believe you’re reading this wrong. Credit to Conrad, he’s come straight out and said he thinks the whole deal is a crock of shit. Maybe so, maybe not. But what about the rest of us? We’ve not said and you haven’t asked. Right?’

  David just nodded.

  ‘OK then. Here’s my contribution. I don’t have a problem with the principle. I find it has style and potential. But you’ve not given us anything more: nothing on where or when or how. And all that’s goin’ to be real tough, perhaps not possible. Still, if you can work it through, I’ll be listening. On that basis, I’m in.’

  David could see Pente stirring and turned to him.

  ‘I agree with King. I’d like to hear more. There are other issues for me, matters of conscience and faith. I need time for them and I need seclusion, but I know now that I don’t share Connie’s outright rejection. I’ll be waiting David.’

  David blew out a deep breath.

  ‘Thank you both. Now I know where you all stand. It’s up to me to take things forward. I have to put flesh on the bones. I’ll do that and then get us together again. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with a code name which is also a clue. I call it Project Zero.’

  CONRAD AVELING — 1996

  Connie’s anger was intense as he left The Mansion House, further fuelled by the memory of that day of savagery in Zambia, but his remedy was the polar opposite to David Heaven’s. To raise the bar of standards, you have to work with what you’ve got. You have to involve, to research, to improve and to train: but evolve, not replace. Not for him David’s chuck out the old and start again. That way lay anarchy. That meant mounting chaos as succeeding pirates imposed their own, self serving rules on a community. Connie thought of some unsavoury Bastion clients and shuddered at the idea of them mounting a takeover. David must be losing his marbles: that or carried away by his own power complex and by the influence of Hugh Dundas. Connie would never have believed it. This was a bloody dreadful day.

  He took the train to Basingstoke, found a seat, tried to relax and failing, looked out on the suburbs and saw himself standing in the dust outside the small airport at Ndola, Zambia. He was tired, hot and irritated that Rory Trollope was late. It was April 1992.

  Rory Trollope had been with Bastion for only a short
time. Conrad interviewed him in South Africa and he joined the company the following day, flying to Ndola where he took over the small team on assignment to ZCCM, the Zambian Government owned conglomerate which controlled the country’s vital mining interests here in the copper belt. They needed the copper to sustain the lurching economy, they needed expatriate expertise to produce the copper, and they needed Bastion to keep the expats feeling secure enough to work and to keep their families here.

  Finding the right recruits for Bastion was a permanent challenge and Conrad insisted on talking to applicants himself. One of those he rejected was Rory Trollope. Conrad’s gut feel said that the guy was overconfident and gung-ho, but that evening brought a knock on his hotel door. He opened it to see a man who looked to be in his late sixties, average height, trim figure, remaining head hair grey and trimmed, upright bearing, immaculate in grey flannels, highly polished shoes, smart blazer and a regimental tie which signalled a loud message to Aveling.

  ‘Good evening, Sir,’ he spoke soft but firm, ‘Might I have a word please, Sir. I’m Rory Trollope’s father, Josh. Formerly of the Grenadier Guards, Sir.’

  He would have snapped off a salute had that been in order, and Conrad replied ‘Come on in, Mr Trollope, and tell me what’s on your mind.’

  With some difficulty, Josh Trollope was persuaded to accept a beer from the minibar and to take a seat. But he was not reluctant to speak.

  ‘Mr Aveling,’ he said, ‘you and I are from the same background, Sir, long term service in the best professional army in the world. I came out in ’64, just married to my Moira who comes from these parts. Her father, long gone now rest his soul, had a farm outside Nelspruit and we took it on. It was a new life for me since I joined the Colours as a boy soldier. It was tough going, but we made a fair go of it. Our son Rory is our only child, Moira couldn’t have more. She and I have decided to move back to UK. We’ve just sold the farm and will be on our way by Christmas. We have just enough saved to get us by and I’m afraid I shan’t be sorry to go. There are big changes coming and they may be right and proper, but I reckon that things here will get a lot worse before they get better, and that won’t be in our lifetime. For Rory, well it’s different of course. He was born, bred and educated here: never lived anywhere else. He’s got to make his own way, but he’s all we’ve got and I’d like him to have the chance to widen his horizons a bit. Your firm straddles two worlds and he has two passports. Your job seemed like the perfect chance for him and that matters to me. And so begging your pardon, Sir, but that’s what made me drive in this evening to ask what you see wrong in him, see if there is anything I can explain.’