A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Cecil ignored that and changed tack. “You say this Aron Frankental is a good chap? What does he feel about this?” He nodded at the map.

  “Look, Aron’s solid. But he’s young and doesn’t have much flair. If it’s not in a respected textbook or taught to him by an academic with a PhD, he’s uncomfortable. But he stands behind that map.”

  “I’d like to see him and get his perspective.”

  Jason didn’t like the implications. “That’s a good idea. We could have a team session with the others too. When could you get down to the mine?” He knew that there was little possibility of Cecil leaving the comfort of his offices and home in Gaborone.

  “No, let’s get him up here.”

  Jason smiled to himself. “Well, we can do that, but I need him carrying on work on the survey. He’s out in the field right now. It would take a while to set it up.”

  Cecil briefly considered showing Jason the letter. Perhaps he should confront him with Aron’s suggestion about the stolen diamonds. He bit his lip, then decided against it.

  “Well, there’s really no hurry, is there? If those pipes are full of diamonds, they’ve been there a long time, and they seem to be quite content. They’re not going anywhere. In the meanwhile, if you can get the mine up to full production of the good gems, we can start building up a bit of money in the kitty. I don’t have unlimited resources, you know, and I’m taking all the risk as it is.”

  He rose to indicate that the meeting was over. “Shall we say seven thirty this evening? Casual.” Then, as Jason started to roll up the map, “Oh, I’d like a copy of that gravity map too, by the way.” Jason just nodded, shook hands, and muttered that he looked forward to the dinner. He was obviously disappointed by the way things had turned out.

  Cecil watched him leave. Without that letter, he thought, I probably couldn’t have resisted it. I would probably have gone for one more throw of the dice and given him the money. He shook his head, not quite sure which scenario he was rejecting.

  Shortly after Jason had left, Jonny reminded him that it was time for his appointment with the two government-appointed directors of BCMC. He was taking them to lunch at the Phakalane Country Club, north of town. The director of the CID would be making up a golf foursome afterward. That would lend some respectability to the proceedings, Cecil thought with a smile. Actually, he liked Mabaku. Could be a helpful chap with speeding fines and the like. Not a bad golfer either.

  Chapter 11

  Jason arrived promptly at half past seven. He had taken the trouble to look casual yet smart. The safari suit had been replaced by white slacks and a black open-necked shirt with a bold African pattern based on Xhosa beadwork. He was carrying a large bunch of yellow and orange roses—for Dianna, he explained—and presented Cecil with a bottle of decent French claret from a good, if recent, year. Cecil appreciated good wine and was pleased that Jason had gone to the trouble of finding something worth drinking. He upgraded the wine list for the evening, but he wondered if this expensive gift was aimed at smoothing over the rather fractious conclusion of the morning’s interview.

  Cecil was feeling mellow. He had enjoyed a good lunch and a pleasant afternoon of golf, and he had lost graciously to his black colleagues, who had each walked off with a thousand pula in side bets. They had been effusive in their thanks for an enjoyable day while downing an obligatory Scotch at the nineteenth hole. The directors had promised to have a word with the minister about the irritating Bushman land issue. He felt that the day had worked out well, and that his support at the crucial board meeting was sewn up. It would be possible to resolve the diamond-mine issue in due course. He could afford to make Jason feel welcome.

  A few minutes later, a taxi brought Dianna to join them. She had also gone to considerable trouble with her appearance. She wore a simple black dress, strikingly embroidered with a birdwing butterfly in emerald and crimson, that clung to her when she moved. Cut to show glimpses of her long, stockinged legs, it plunged between her breasts. In a surprisingly formal touch, she wore a double chain of heavy pearls, and plain gold bracelets. She had found time to have her hair done.

  Dianna walked over to Jason, threw her arms around him, and gave him a strong kiss that lasted several seconds. “Hello, darling,” she said. “I’ve missed you!”

  Jason held her at arm’s length and appraised her carefully, lifting his eyes from her slender waist, past her cleavage, past the pearls, to her face and the glisten of her hair.

  “You are looking gorgeous, Dianna,” he said quietly. “What an incredible dress.” Turning, he presented her with the roses. She smiled as she took the flowers and called one of the servants to deal with them.

  Dianna turned toward a numb Cecil, whose mouth worked like a fish in astonishment. “Didn’t I tell you, Uncle Cecil? Jason and I have been seeing each other ever since I went hunting in the Kalahari with him about six months ago. We met at one of the camps I was staying at. He took me down to see the Maboane operation, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “I had no idea you knew each other well,” Cecil stammered. Jason’s face expressed his own surprise at Cecil being in the dark.

  Cecil ushered them to the sparsely furnished lounge for a drink before dinner. “I like the modern minimalist style,” he said to Jason, recovering some of his composure, and mentioned the name of the interior designer who had produced their austere surroundings. Jason looked impressed and nodded, assuming that the name would be well known to people who had the money for this sort of thing.

  “It’s brilliant,” he said, “uncluttered, almost Spartan, but completely comfortable.” This seemed to be an adequate comment from someone whose furniture had to fit into the back of a four-wheel-drive truck. He settled back to enjoy the excellent whisky. Cecil had added half a dozen drops to it when Jason had asked for water; he was glad he hadn’t tried for soda. Dianna was drinking a dry martini with an olive. He found it easy to watch her and avoid the immediate need to say anything.

  “How long are you going to be in Gaborone?” she asked him.

  “Probably a few more days. It’s really up to your uncle. We need to go over some issues connected with the mine. After that I must get back. As you know, we have an active exploration program under way, as well as the production from the mine itself.”

  Dianna turned toward Cecil. “Actually, Uncle Cecil, I’ve been doing research on Maboane for some time. It’s quite a substantial investment for the trust, and it isn’t really clear to me how it should be handled.”

  Now it was Jason’s turn to be confused and concerned. He and Dianna had had several conversations about Maboane’s future, and he had been sure that she supported his development plans. If she changed her mind, it could cause him all sorts of problems and cost him a lot of money.

  “What is your assessment, Uncle?” she asked.

  Cecil felt panic welling up. He didn’t want to explore this issue in detail in front of Jason, and he didn’t want to explore it with Dianna at all. She had obviously already researched the mine. Did she know how much money the trust had lent to the operation under various harmless-sounding debenture entries? Did she know how much it had lent him? She had completely fooled him about Jason. How much more did she know that she was not revealing? He carefully savored the whisky, buying time to decide what to say.

  “We’re getting some excellent gemstones from lower in the ore body now,” he eventually said. “I think the mine is going to be very profitable, and as Jason says, we have lots of promising possibilities to extend the resource. Of course, we must be careful not to overstretch our investment.” The last sentence was directed at Jason, but it was Dianna who responded.

  “But in the joint-venture project report, De Beers didn’t think much of its long-term prospects. That’s why they walked away from it.”

  Jason looked at her, surprised. He thought he had given her all the information she wanted, albeit carefully selected to support his point of view. “We believe that they made a
big mistake,” he said. “The heavy mineral indicators were not right. Micro diamonds and some of value lower down in the kimberlite, but nothing really payable. That was the conclusion from the bulk sampling. However, on closer examination, and after spending a lot of time there doing the geology, I’m convinced otherwise.”

  “Shall we go in to dinner?” Cecil interjected. “I think the chef has prepared a special main course for us. Pigeon with foie gras. He doesn’t have guests to show off to as often as he used to. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.” He led the way to the dining room. They took their drinks with them.

  Dianna was pleased with herself. Jason was visibly concerned that she had read the De Beers report. Cecil was shocked by her liaison with Jason and by the fact she was prying into BCMC affairs. She had expected him to be surprised, but she wondered why he seemed so concerned. The first few minutes of the dinner passed in complete silence, other than a few quiet acknowledgments to the waiters. Cecil and Jason stared at their smoked springbok carpaccio starters, eating without enthusiasm. On the other hand, Dianna savored the food and their discomfort in equal measure.

  The dinner was excellent and impeccably served with appropriate wines, whose pedigrees Cecil described in some detail. So there was little need of small talk until they were past dessert and into coffee and—in Cecil’s case—port and cigars. Everyone was more relaxed. Dianna was radiant, slightly tipsy, and having fun.

  “I think I’ll have a glass of port after all, Uncle Cecil,” she said. Cecil turned to call the waiter, who had discreetly retired to the kitchen.

  “No, let me!” Dianna interrupted. For a moment she was quite still, concentrating. Then in an almost perfect replica of Cecil’s voice she called, “Johannes! Bring back the port. Miss Dianna would like a glass.” The waiter appeared at once, looking at Cecil, but was greeted by Dianna’s laughter. Cecil was smiling too. “That’s fine, Johannes. Give the guests new glasses and top mine up.” Then, to Dianna, “I had forgotten about your party tricks, my dear. I see you haven’t lost your touch.”

  Jason was surprised, unsure what to make of this. To change the subject, he asked Dianna, “Have you had a chance to explore Gaborone at all since I last saw you? Not much in comparison with London, I’m sure, but there are some decent restaurants and night life nowadays. There’s a nightclub I’ve visited a few times when I’ve been here. It’s interesting. African flavor.”

  Dianna looked at him as though he had said something quite different, which she considered carefully while she drank the port. “No, I haven’t. I was waiting for you! Let’s go.”

  Jason wasn’t sure if she meant immediately, but Dianna stood up and thanked Cecil for dinner. Jason worried that he would think them rude, but, with a puff of Cohiba smoke, Cecil said he was keen on an early night in any case.

  “I’ll have Jason drop me off afterward at the Grand Palm,” Dianna said. Cecil gave a casual wave, and they saw themselves out.

  Jason helped Dianna into the passenger seat of the dented and unwashed bright yellow Land Rover that BCMC had lent him to use while in Gaborone. All BCMC’s bush vehicles were this garish color, which was supposed to be the most visible from the air in case of a breakdown or accident.

  “I’m sorry about the vehicle. Not quite appropriate for a night on the town, is it? I’m sure you are used to a rather different class of transport.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” Then she spoke in Cecil’s voice again, saying pedantically, “The queen drives one of these around Balmoral all the time. Not this color, though!” This time they both laughed.

  Chapter 12

  The African Gala Club differed from the places Dianna was accustomed to in much the same way that the Land Rover was different from the red BMW sports car she drove in London. The club was loud and glitzy, the African flavor supplied by tomba drums, which provided a bass beat below the electric guitars and amplified voices of the live band. The dance floor covered most of the room, with the obligatory multifaceted sphere rotating above it, spreading flashes of color among the dancers.

  The club was for adults—the prices ensured that—and there were tables spread in the twilight around the dance floor, allowing one to rest and even to attempt conversation. If people were taking drugs, they were the designer ones of the twenty-first century; the air was free of the acrid smell of dagga. Even though it was a Friday night, it was not crowded. Jason said the atmosphere was better on Saturday nights, when people flocked to the adjoining casino like moths to a flame.

  They danced while the live band was playing, but when the musicians deserted their instruments for a break, Dianna suggested a long, cold drink. She found dancing required more enthusiasm than skill, and quite rapidly exhausted her supply of both. Jason seemed comfortable and had a good feeling for the rhythm. They headed for one of the vacant tables while the disc jockey started his patter.

  Jason went off to get pink gins. She had no difficulty letting him pay for everything. Such issues had never mattered to her or to her friends. While she waited for his return, she thought again about the Maboane mine. She decided to try a small fishing expedition. Thanking Jason for the drink, she said, “Angus knows what’s going on at the Maboane mine, you know. I think you are going to have quite a problem there, Jason.” She watched him carefully, detecting concern and uncertainty. He tried to cover it with a mouthful of his drink, so she pressed on, “He knows that it will never be commercial. It’s just a pipe dream, isn’t it? And a money trap?”

  Surprisingly, Jason seemed relieved. “A lot of smart people and geologists think that, and we’re going to prove them all wrong. There will be a lot of dry pap eaten around here.” Seeing the look on her face, he laughed and explained, “Dry porridge. Humble pie, that is.”

  Then he became more serious and leaned forward until his face was in her space, causing her to draw back. “I haven’t had your sort of advantages, Dianna. This mine is going to make me wealthy, very wealthy. Your uncle’s a visionary. I won’t forget his help, and I won’t forget yours if you give it.” He took her hands in his, and she felt her attraction to him stir with the intensity and passion of his words. We really do have something important in common, she thought.

  She smiled, enjoying the effect on him. “Is that a job offer? It’s the second one I’ve had today. The first was for financial director at BCMC. The only problem is that I’d be under Cecil’s thumb. What’s your offer, and what’s the catch? They all come with a catch, don’t they?”

  Jason smiled back. “I wasn’t thinking of a job. I can’t match Cecil’s offer, anyway. I was thinking more of an alliance. I know there are things you want, and that even with all this”—with one gesture he took in the dress, body, pearls—“you can’t get them by yourself. I’m willing to help.”

  Who is fishing for whom? she wondered, finishing her drink. Although his glass was still half full, Jason went to get her another. It took him a few minutes to get service at the crowded bar. Suddenly he heard a commotion behind him: men’s voices raised and chairs being knocked over. It was coming from where they had been sitting. He deserted the drinks and elbowed his way back.

  A man was sitting on the floor amid up-ended chairs. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose, but blood was still leaking onto his shirt. He looked up at Jason’s approach, frightened, fearing a further attack.

  “She’s broken my nose!” he said. “I just—” But he shut up as Dianna leaned over him with her fists clenched. “If you ever touch me again, you whimpering mongrel, I’ll break your scrawny neck with my bare hands!” Jason looked at her speechless, shocked equally by what she had said and how she had said it. Her intonation and accent were the same as usual, but the timbre of her voice had deepened and hardened. The man scrambled to his feet and backed off, still clutching the handkerchief to his face.

  Dianna was looking at the knuckles of her right hand, which looked bruised and bloodied. “I need to wash my hands,” she said, her voice back to normal. Ignoring Jason, she walked
toward the toilets. With no idea what had happened, or what he should do, Jason finished his drink and waited. After five minutes Dianna returned.

  “What the hell happened? What was that all about?”

  “It’s hot in here,” Dianna said flatly. “And I’ve danced enough. Please take me back to the hotel.”

  Jason pulled up the Land Rover in front of the impressive entrance of the Grand Palm Hotel. The battered vehicle looked out of place amongst the BMWs, Mercedes sports cars, and luxury four-by-fours. A valet was already fussing as they came to a stop.

  “I really enjoyed the evening, Jason,” Dianna said. “Would you like to come up for a drink?” After the unpleasant conclusion to their clubbing, Jason hesitated for a moment—but only for a moment. “Sure,” he said.

  “Just leave the car here, then. Someone will deal with it for you.”

  He left the car running, walked round to the passenger side, and opened the door for her. She gave him a smile and got out. The valet was already in the driver’s seat.

  “They gave me the Presidential Suite on the fifth floor,” she said, as though it had been a present. They walked through the imposing reception area and took the elevator to the top floor. She let them in. The suite was spacious, with luxurious furnishings. Through the windows Jason saw a stunning view of the city lights. She waved at a bar crowded with bottles.

  “Help yourself to anything you want, Jason. I’m sticky from the dancing. I’m going to take a shower.” She smiled again, went through to the bedroom, and closed the door. Jason examined the bar. It was stocked with every sort of liquor one could desire. He wondered what this suite was costing her and decided she probably didn’t know or care. He settled for a generous tot of whisky and opened the fridge for ice. A bottle of Dom Perignon champagne lay cooling next to some white wines he didn’t recognize. He decided to forgo the ice and took a generous mouthful of the whisky. It slightly numbed his mouth and filled his senses with aromatic flavors. He let it roll gently down his throat, liquid amber.