Legacy of War

by Wilbur Smith

  The dogs frequently barked in the night, but only at other animals. The guards never reported anything suspicious. The fence was never climbed, the gate was never breached.

  One night, De Lancey and Prudence were reading in their small drawing room after dinner when there was a brief flurry of barking, which died away in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Josiah!’ De Lancey called out.

  The houseboy appeared in the drawing room doorway.

  ‘Yes, bwana.’

  ‘See if you can find out why the hounds were making that racket.’

  ‘Yes, bwana.’

  ‘And pour me another whisky when you’re done.’

  ‘Yes, bwana.’

  Josiah disappeared. A few moments later the house lights went out.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ De Lancey exclaimed. ‘Bloody generator.’

  He made his way in the darkness to the doorway. His revolver was lying on the table beside his chair, next to his empty glass of whisky.

  ‘Josiah!’ De Lancey bellowed.

  ‘I’m here, bwana. But please, bwana, come with me. One of the dogs is sick.’

  ‘Oh, for hell’s sake.’

  He stepped down the hall in the direction of Josiah’s voice. Only then did he notice that the front door was open, and smell the sweat in the air and see the black shadowy outlines around him.

  De Lancey opened his mouth to cry for help, but before he could make a sound, a hand was clamped across his face. His arms were grabbed and forced behind his back and suddenly he was being frogmarched to the door.

  Behind him he heard his wife’s call. ‘Quentin . . . Quentin . . . Where are you?’

  The nightwatchman was due to be relieved at dawn. In the first chill light of the new day, his replacement arrived to find the gate open. Clutching his rifle, for fear was already spreading like poison through his body, the policeman made his way into the compound.

  There was no sign of the guard.

  The policeman went into the compound and walked towards the house.

  The front door was open too.

  The policeman was approaching the verandah and about to enter the De Lanceys’ house when something caught his eye. He moved to the side of the building and saw three dark mounds.

  The Rhodesian ridgebacks had been skewered on the needle-sharp logs like chunks of meat on a kebab.

  The policeman considered running for help, but told himself that if anyone was still in the house they would already have killed him.

  He stepped inside, calling ‘Hello? Hello?’ But there was no answer.

  He looked in the study and the dining room. Both rooms were empty, as was the downstairs cloakroom.

  He came to the drawing room.

  Prudence De Lancey’s body was lying naked across the sofa. Her throat had been cut so deeply by a Mau Mau panga that she had almost been decapitated, and her head was lying at a grotesque angle to her body with a huge, gaping wound that seemed to laugh at the policeman.

  Blood had sprayed across the wall behind the sofa, and onto the furniture and carpet.

  There was more blood that had seeped from the pulpy red mess between Mrs De Lancey’s legs. The Mau Mau must have raped and tortured her before she died.

  The policeman felt dizzy. He went outside and threw up.

  He wiped his mouth and ran from the charnel house, shouting frantically for help as he went.

  Saffron waited a couple of weeks before telling Gerhard about her plan to go on patrol with Sergeant Makori and his gang of pseudo-terrorists. But then a letter arrived, giving the place, date and time for her rendezvous with Makori. It was only three days away. She had no alternative but to come clean.

  It was half past ten at night, and they were both getting ready for bed. Gerhard was sitting on the edge of their bed, in his shirt and underpants, pulling off his socks.

  ‘Was this what you two were talking about, when you spent most of the garden party with your handsome police sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘You weren’t exactly unoccupied, as I recall,’ Saffron snapped back. ‘Bravely fighting off sexy Ginnie Osterley.’

  She was standing in the doorway that led to their bathroom in her dressing gown and nightie, her face covered in night cream.

  We both look ridiculous, she thought. Why in God’s name did I choose to pick a fight now?

  ‘But I’m not making appointments with her, am I?’ Gerhard barked back, pulling off his second sock and throwing it onto the floor.

  ‘I don’t know – maybe you are. Many a bored husband would.’

  ‘Is that what you think I am?’

  Saffron said nothing, just glared at Gerhard in miserable, guilty anger as he looked back at her across the room.

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ he said. ‘And what’s much more important, I’m not planning to risk my life chasing after the Mau Mau. For God’s sake, what about our family? How can you risk that?’

  Gerhard was right, but that only made Saffron defend her position all the more bitterly.

  ‘You didn’t seem to mind me taking risks when we were chasing your bloody brother.’

  ‘That was different, and you know it. Konrad had come right into our world. He was threatening us and the children. We had to deal with him, we had no choice. But this is different. The Mau Mau pose no threat to us here. Our children are safe. For God’s sake, why can’t you be happy with that?’

  ‘Because I have to know what’s really happening?’

  ‘Why? Why do you have to know? What difference will it make to you, to us, to anyone, what you know?’

  ‘I just have to . . .’ Saffron’s voice died away. She shook her head, looking down at the floor.

  Gerhard got up from the bed, walked across to her and put his hands on her shoulders, gently, showing no aggression. Then he quietly said, ‘Look at me.’

  Saffron raised her head. Her anger had ebbed away. All that was left was her unhappiness at the fight that they had just had.

  ‘I need to ask you a question, and you must promise to answer truthfully. During the war you went into the Low Countries . . . but were there other missions as well, ones you’ve never talked about?’

  Saffron took a deep breath, exhaled, then nodded and mumbled, rather than said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dangerous . . . even deadly missions?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Were you obliged to undertake these missions, or did you volunteer?’

  She shrugged. ‘Both . . . I mean, sometimes I was ordered to go somewhere that didn’t seem like a dangerous mission, but—’

  ‘You found a way to make it one?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Because once you’ve been in danger, life without danger feels a little boring, no?’

  Saffron’s eyes widened. There was more energy in her voice as she said, ‘You mean, you felt that too? I always thought—’

  ‘What? That I was always the reluctant warrior? That I never wanted anything more to do with any of it? Well, in some ways, yes. But I flew hundreds of missions, three whole years on the Eastern Front – and survived. I shot down more than one hundred planes and never lost one, never even had a single flesh wound. You think a man can do that if all the fighting, and killing, and risking his life doesn’t thrill him at some level? I could have had a desk job. I could have spent my entire time touring the Reich, playing the great war hero. But when I went home on leave, I’d find myself drinking too much, driving too fast—’

  ‘Screwing too many women?’

  Now it was Gerhard’s turn to shrug. ‘I’m not proud of any of it. But I was addicted, like some of my friends were addicted to the drugs that woke them up in the morning and sent them to sleep at night. Even just now, when I finally had the chance to fight my brother . . . Well, you saw me – I was loving it. So, what I am saying is, I understand how you feel.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Saffron said, putting her arms around him and holding him tight. ‘I’d been feeling so gu
ilty, so ashamed of how I am . . .’ Then she smiled and glanced up, looking him in the eye. ‘I wasn’t an entirely good girl, myself.’

  He gave an affectionate little laugh and used his forefinger to scrape some of the cream off her cheek. Then he kissed her there and said, ‘We were apart for six years – and you are not a nun. None of that matters now . . . But, darling, we have to grow up now and think of our children. They need us.’

  ‘I’ll write back to Makori and tell him I can’t come on his patrol.’

  Saffron looked very closely at Gerhard, wanting to see his reaction, because she wanted him to be pleased that she had made this choice for him, and for the children, rather than for herself.

  He nodded and was about to speak, but then stopped himself, paused for a moment and said, ‘No . . . go on the patrol. Get the drug out of your system. And then you must promise me . . . never again.’

  ‘I promise,’ Saffron said. ‘Never again.’

  And she swore to herself that she meant it.

  ‘Stay out of trouble,’ Gerhard said, halfway between a command and a plea.

  It was three mornings after their argument, and he was lying in bed as the very first rays of morning light shone through the bedroom windows at Cresta Lodge, painting the bedroom with glowing orange and gold.

  ‘Yes,’ said Saffron, a little irritably, pulling on her trousers.

  Their argument the other night had ended peacefully enough, but the memory of it clung to them both and the tension between them was still unresolved. Gerhard might have said she should go on the patrol, but he plainly would prefer that the subject had never been raised at all.

  ‘And if trouble comes looking for you,’ he added, ‘please, try for once to run away and avoid it.’

  There was no sound of argument in his voice, just genuine concern for Saffron’s safety.

  She came back to the bed, and sat down beside him, softening her tone as she said, ‘There won’t be any trouble, but if there is, I really will do my absolute best to stay out of it. Even if I’m tempted.’

  ‘Huh!’ Gerhard gave a rueful smile. ‘As if you could . . .’ He reached across and put his hand on hers. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘And come back safely.’

  ‘I will,’ Saffron replied.

  But when she closed the door behind her, she realised that neither of them had said, ‘I love you.’ For a second she hesitated, wondering whether to go back to Gerhard. But then she thought, I’ll make it up to him this evening, and went instead to the bedroom that Zander and Kika shared.

  The children were both asleep, but Saffron kissed their foreheads and whispered, ‘Mummy loves you,’ to them both.

  Then she ate a hearty breakfast, for there was no telling when her next meal might be, and filled the small, battered canvas shoulder bag that she had carried throughout the war with everything she might need. She set off from Cresta Lodge in one of the Land Rovers that she and Gerhard kept there.

  Makori had told her to meet him at half past eight. She had five minutes to spare as she drove through the gates of the police headquarters in Molo, a small town about fifteen miles from the northernmost point of the Lusima estate. The town lay at an altitude of over 8,000 feet, and there was still a sharp chill in the air.

  Up ahead lay the police station, a single-storey, L-shaped building. Beyond it, dotted across the hillside that rose behind the station, were the men’s living quarters: huts for the Africans, bungalows for their white officers. Uniformed men were scurrying to and fro. To an untrained eye they might have looked like efficient, well-drilled men going about their business. But Saffron had six years of wartime service and she knew what she was seeing.

  Something had gone wrong. Or, as the forces saying went, ‘There’s a bit of a flap on.’

  She parked her Land Rover and walked towards the main entrance.

  Amid the uniforms, a solitary black man was squatting by the entrance, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette as he rolled dice along the ground in front of him. His tufted hair and beard were equally scraggly and unkempt. The whites of his eyes had the discoloured, jaundiced look that came from a lifetime of disease and poor nutrition. He scratched himself contemplatively, then picked the dice up and rolled again.

  As Saffron came closer, she saw that his clothes were unwashed and he stank of sweat and filth. His tattered old trousers had gaping holes at the knee and were held up, like a tramp’s, with knotted brown twine. She walked past him and was about to push on the door to the police station when she heard a voice she recognised say, ‘Good morning, Mrs Courtney Meerbach. I do hope you are well today.’

  She spun round to find the African was standing up, holding out a grimy, calloused hand. It was only when he smiled that the penny dropped.

  ‘Sergeant Makori!’ Saffron exclaimed. ‘You fooled me.’

  ‘Meet Sungura,’ Makori said. ‘That’s the name I go by, when I’m undercover.’

  ‘Sungura means rabbit,’ Saffron said. ‘Doesn’t sound right for a commanding officer.’

  ‘The pseudos gave it to me because I’m the most nimble runner in the group. I don’t object. If I’m walking into a Mau Mau camp, I don’t want any of them seeing me as a threat. So far as they’re concerned, my number two, Thiga, is our leader. He used to lead one of the biggest rebel gangs, over by Meru. No one knows he’s been turned. They think he’s still General Thiga, the famous terrorist. And I am just his rabbit.’

  ‘Well, it’s an excellent disguise,’ Saffron said. ‘Though I pity your poor wife having to put up with you being quite so dirty.’

  And there’s no danger of me fancying you either, thank God!

  Makori gave a sad smile. ‘She never sees me like this. When I am working undercover, I have to stay away from my family, for their sake.’

  ‘I understand, I know just how tough that part of the job is. But there’s one thing I have to know – how did you get your eyes to go that colour?’

  ‘Potassium permanganate solution,’ Makori said, and added with a proud smile, ‘I have a Higher School Certificate in Chemistry!’

  ‘A man with your intelligence should have gone to university,’ Saffron said.

  ‘I wanted to, but then the war came. And afterwards, I had a wife and a baby on the way. I had to get a proper job. But one day, maybe . . .’

  ‘When this awful bloody mess is over, and we can lead normal lives again, you and your wife must come to dinner with my husband Gerhard and me. And we will talk about how we’re going to get you a damn good degree. I mean it.’

  ‘I know you do, Mrs Courtney Meerbach,’ Makori replied, with a quiet intensity. ‘And I hear you.’ He paused, then snapped back into policeman mode. ‘Now, it seems that I have picked quite a day for our patrol. When I tell you why, you may wish to come back another day.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Saffron said.

  She had promised Gerhard she would stay out of trouble. But now, at the very suggestion of its presence, she sensed her pulse quicken and her senses come alive, like a gundog pricking up its ears at the sound of the first shot.

  ‘Very well,’ Makori said. ‘Do you know of a man called Quentin De Lancey?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Saffron replied, not bothering to keep the loathing out of her voice.

  Makori frowned before he went on. ‘Well, he has disappeared, presumed kidnapped by the Mau Mau. The officer guarding the gate of his house has gone, too, and also the houseboy. His guard dogs were killed and his wife . . .’ He paused, unsure how much detail to give.

  ‘I get the picture,’ Saffron said. ‘Do you have any leads?

  Makori shrugged. ‘Nothing definite. The local police are handling the investigation, but we have been ordered to keep a sharp eye out for anything that suggests he has been taken to this area. We’re heading out on patrol in ten minutes. May I ask – how would you describe your competence as a driver?’

  ‘Well, I served in the Western Desert as General Maitland Wilson’s driver, if that’s any guid
e.’

  ‘Did you ever come under fire?’

  ‘We bumped into an Italian patrol once, behind the front line in Libya. They pursued us at high speed.’

  ‘And you escaped . . .?’

  ‘Yes, but I had to shoot their driver first.’ Saffron reached inside her bag, pulled out her Beretta, rigorously serviced since her mishap in South Africa, and added, ‘With this.’

  A sardonic smile spread across Makori’s face.

  ‘That will do . . . Please follow us in your vehicle. I will give you one of my best people to go with you and I will keep you posted on what’s going on whenever I get the chance.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There is one other thing. I am in command of this patrol. My orders must be obeyed by everyone. You must therefore obey them too.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Saffron. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else.’

  When Makori told her that he was sending her one of his best people, Saffron had expected a man. Instead she received her second shock of the day when a woman, dressed in a thick coat over a brightly printed cotton dress came up to the Land Rover and said, ‘My name is Wambui, Sergeant Makori told me to ride with you.’

  ‘Good morning, Wambui,’ Saffron replied. ‘My name is Saffron.’ She patted the seat beside her. ‘Please, get in.’

  Wambui paused while she considered the fluency of Saffron’s Swahili, her good manners, and her willingness to allow Wambui to sit beside her and use her first name. No white person had ever shown her such respect, and it was clear that this one’s actions had been automatic, as if they were entirely normal. She therefore deserved equal respect in return.

  Wambui climbed in. She was carrying one of the straight, double-sided short swords that Kikuyu people called a simi.

  ‘Do you fight alongside the men?’ Saffron asked, starting the engine.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Wambui replied. ‘Always.’

  ‘Yet you do not carry a gun.’

  ‘The men would not allow it. They would be insulted if a woman was as well armed as them.’

  ‘Men can be very stupid sometimes.’

  Wambui burst out laughing and gave a clap of her hands. ‘Yes, they are no better than baboons!’