Elephant Song

by Wilbur Smith

  He was careful not to run or to make any other hurried movement that might provoke the leopard, even though the body of the Cadillac should inhibit a charge, and the animal already had its victim. Daniel was now well out of the cat's attack circle.

  Daniel turned at last and strode away into the night.

  He used Chawe's key-card to let himself out into the street, closed the main gates behind him and then broke into a jogtrot.

  When they found Chetti Singh in the morning it would be apparent that for some unexplained reason he had gone to the wrong premises in response to the fire alarm call, and he had been attacked by his own animal while he was in the process of opening the warehouse door. The police would reason that left-hand drive controls of the Cadillac had made it necessary for him to leave the vehicle in order to operate the door controls.

  Daniel had left no fingerprints or other incriminating evidence behind him.

  When he reached the furthest corner of the perimeter fence, Daniel paused and looked back. The glow of the Cadillac's headlights still lit the open warehouse door. He saw a dark feline shape, low and slinky, slip out through the door and streak to the high mesh of the perimeter fence.

  The leopard went over the fence with the ease of a bird taking flight.

  Daniel smiled. He knew that the poor tormented brute would head unerringly for its home in the misty forested mountains.

  After what it had suffered, it deserved that freedom at least, he thought.

  Thirty minutes later he reached the hired Volkswagen. He drove to the airport and parked it in one of the Avis bays. He dropped the keys in the return box of the locked and deserted Avis office and then went to his Landcruiser in the public carpark.

  At the Capital Hotel he packed quickly, stuffing his few possessions into the canvas valise. He used one of his neckties as a sling for his arm.

  All that exertion had aggravated the injury. The sleepy night clerk at the hotel cashier's desk printed his credit card and he carried his own bag out to the Landcruiser.

  Unable to restrain his curiosity he drove past the Chetti Singh supermarket. There was no damage to the main building, although in the back alley a couple of firemen were still hosing down the pile of scorched garbage and the smoke-stained rear wall, watched by a dozen or so local residents in their nightclothes.

  He turned westwards and left Lilongwe, heading back towards the Zambian border post. It was a three-hour drive.

  He turned on the radio and tuned to the early-morning service of Radio Malawi, listening to the music and news reports.

  He was approaching the border post when it came on the six o'clock news.

  It was the second item after a report on the breaching of the Berlin Wall and the flood of East Germans to the West. Meanwhile, here in Lilongwe we have just received a report that a prominent Malawi businessman and entrepreneur has been savagely mauled by his own pet leopard. Mr. Chetti Singh was rushed to the Lilongwe General Hospital where he is now in the intensive-care unit. A hospital spokesman said that Mr. Singh was suffering from extensive injuries and his condition is described as critical. The circumstances of the attack are unknown, but the police are seeking an employee of Mr. Singh's, a certain Mr.

  Chawe Gundwana, who they hope will be able to assist them with their enquiries. Any person knowing the whereabouts of Mr. Gundwana is asked to report to the nearest police station. Daniel switched off the radio and parked outside the Malawi immigration post. He was expecting trouble.

  customs a There might be an APB out on him already, especially if Chetti Singh was in a condition to speak and had given Daniel's name to the police. Chetti Singh's survival had not been part of Daniel's calculations. He had expected the leopard to do a more thorough job.

  His mistake had been in moving the Cadillac too soon. It had distracted the leopard from its victim.

  One thing was certain: Chetti Singh was going to need a few gallons of blood transfusion. In Africa that involved an additional hazard.

  He hummed his own version of the old song: Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

  if the leopard don't get him, then I must.

  Then with some trepidation, he took his passport into the border post. He need not have worried. The law was all smiles and courtesy.

  Did you enjoy your holiday in Malawi? We are always pleased to see you, sir.

  Come again soon, sir. Old Hastings Banda had them well trained.

  They all appreciated the vital role that tourism played in their lives.

  There was none of the have-not resentment that was so evident in other parts of the continent.

  He folded a five-dollar bill into his Passport as he approached the post on the Zambian side, a hundred yards in distance but, it seemed to him, a mighty leap back into the dark ages as he passed between the two countries.

  He telephoned Michael Hargreave within an hour of arriving in Lusaka, and Michael invited him to dinner that evening. Where are you heading next, you roving bedouin you? Wendy demanded as she served him a second helping of her famous Yorkshire pudding. God, what a lovely adventurous, romantic life you lead. I really must find you a wife; you make all our husbands restless. How long will you be with us?

  That depends on what Michael can tell me about a mutual acquaintance called Ning Cheng Gong. If he's still in Harare, that's where I will be heading. If not, well, it's back to London, or possibly Taiwan.

  You're still chasing after the Chink? Michael asked, as he pulled the cork from a bottle of reasonable deuxime cru claret that had come out in the diplomatic bag. Are we allowed to know what it's all about yet?

  Daniel glanced at Wendy, and she pulled a face. Do you want me to go to the kitchen? Don't be an ass, Wendy. I've never had any secrets from you, Daniel soothed her, and then turned back to her husband. I have proved to my own satisfaction that Ning Cheng Gong arranged the attack on the Chiwewe ivory godown. Michael arrested the claret glass on the way to his lips. Oh dear. Now I see what it's all about.

  Johnny Nzou was your pal, I remember. But Ning! Are you sure? He's an ambassador, not a gangster. He's both, Daniel disagreed. His hatchet man was a Sikh from Lilongwe, name of Chetti Singh. They have quite a few secrets between them. Not only ivory, but everything else from drugs to diamonds. Chetti Singh. I've heard that name recently.

  Mike thought for only a second. Yes, on the news this morning. He was mauled by his own pet leopard, wasn't he? His expression changed again. Just about the time you were in Lilongwe.

  What a coincidence, Danny. Has it got anything to do with your arm being in a sling, and your smug expression? I'm a reformed character, you know me, Daniel assured him. Would never dream of any rough stuff, but I did find out something from Chetti Singh during my brief chat to him before the unfortunate incident with the leopard. It's something that might interest you spooks at MI6. Michael looked pained. Ladies present, old boy. We don't mention the firm like that. Never bruit it about. had form. Wendy stood up. On second thoughts, I will go and keep an eye on Cheffie. I'll be ten minutes, enough time for boy talk, I hope. She took her wine-glass with her. Coast clear, Michael murmured. Fire away, Danny. Chetti Singh tells me that there is a coup being set up in Ubomo. Omeru is going to get the chop. Oh, dear me; not Omeru. He wears a white hat. One of the good guys. That will never do. Have you any details? Not many, I'm afraid. Ning Cheng Gong is in it, and his family, but not as principals, I suspect.

  I think they are merely eager sponsors of the proposed revolution, with expectations of rights and privileges later on. Michael nodded. Usual set-up. They get a slice of the pie when the new ruler of Ubonio divides it up. No idea who he will be? None, I'm afraid, but it will be soon. My bet is within the next few months. We'll have to get a warning to Omeru. The PM might want to fly in an SAS battalion to guard him. I know she's particularly pro the old boy and Ubonio is, after all, a member of the Commonwealth. I'd be obliged if you could check up on Ning Cheng Gong while you're at it, Mike. He's gone, Danny. Flown the coop.

&n
bsp; Spoke to my opposite number in Harare only this morning. Of course, I knew of your interest in him, so I dropped the question into the conversation.

  Ning held a farewell party at the Chinese embassy on Friday evening and flew home on Saturday. Damn it, Daniel exclaimed. That shoots down all my plans. I was going to go down to Harare Wouldn't have been a good idea, Michael broke in. It's one thing feeding an ordinary law-abiding citizen to his own leopard, but one can't go around beating up ambassadors. It's considered very poor form indeed. He's no longer ambassador, Daniel pointed out. I could follow him to Taiwan. Another very mediocre idea, if you don't mind my saying so.

  Taiwan is Ning's home wicket. From what I hear, his family all but owns the island. Whole place is sure to be bristling with Ning's uglies. If you're determined to play the avenging angel, best bide your time. If what you tell me is correct, Ning will be back in Africa soon. Ubomo is a nice neutral turf, better than Taiwan. At least I could back you up there. We've got an office in Kahah, the capital, in fact there is a chance that- Michael broke off. Bit premature, but there is talk that I may be sent to Kahah on my next posting. Daniel stared into his glass, swilling the contents slowly as though admiring the ruby lights in the wine. At last he sighed and nodded. You're right, as always. He grinned at Michael ruefully.

  I was getting carried away, besides which I'm terrifyingly short of cash.

  Doubt I could raise the airfare to Taipei. Never have believed it of you, old boy. Thought you were rolling in the filthy stuff. Always been green with envy. All those million-dollar TV contracts.

  Everything I have is wrapped up in those video cassettes you sent to London for me.

  Not worth a damn until I cut and dub them. That's what I'll have to do right now. Before you go, you'd better give me a briefing on all you know about this pair, Singh and Ning. I'll follow up on my side, in case. . . In case anything happens to me, Daniel finished for him.

  Never said that, old boy. Perish the thought.

  Although this time you do seem to have picked on a pair of heavyweights.

  I'd like to leave my Landcruiser and all my gear here in Lusaka with you in the usual way, if that isn't inconvenient?

  Pleasure, dear boy. My home is your home. My garage is your garage.

  Feel free.

  The next morning Daniel returned to the Hargreaves' home.

  Michael was at work, but Wendy and her domestic staff helped him unpack the Landcruiser. His equipment was stiff with dust and the accumulated filth of six months bush living. Between them they cleaned it all and repacked it into the vehicle. They threw away the perishables and Daniel made a list of replacements.

  Then he parked the Landcruiser in the spare garage, and put the battery on charge, ready for his next expedition, whenever that might be.

  When Michael came home for lunch from the High Commission, he and Daniel spent an hour sequestered in his study.

  After that the three of them split a bottle of wine, sitting under the Morula trees beside the swimming-pool.

  I passed on your message to Lcmdon, Michael told him. Apparently Omeru is in London at the moment. The Foreign Office had an urgent word with him, but it didn't do much good, by all accounts. Without chapter and verse, and your intelligence was rather vague, the old boy pooh-poohed the idea of a coup. "My people love me," he said, or words to that effect. "I am their father. " Turned down the PM's offer of support.

  Nevertheless Omeru is cutting short his visit, and going back to Ubomo, so we might have done some good. Probably sent him straight into the jaws of the lion, Daniel said morosely, and watched Wendy heaping his plate with fresh salad grown in her own vegetable garden.

  Probably, Michael agreed cheerfully. Poor old brighter.

  Speaking of lion's jaws, and that sort of thing, I have more news for you. I buzzed our man in Lilongwe. Your friend Chetti Singh is off the danger list. Hospital describes his condition as "serious but stable," although they did have to amputate one arm. Seems as though the leopard chewed it up rather thoroughly. Wish it had been his head.

  Can't have everything, can we?

  Must be thankful for small mercies. Anyway, I'll keep you posted while you are in London.

  Have you still got that flat in Chelsea, near Sloane Square? It's not a flat, said Wendy. Bachelor house of ill-repute, more like it.

  Nonsense, old girl, Michael twitted her. Danny is a monk; never touches the stuff, do you? Is the telephone number the same, 730-something? I've got it written down somewhere. Yes, same address.

  Same number. I'll ring you if anything comes up. What can I bring you from London when I come back, Wendy? You can bring me the entire stock of Fortnum's, she sighed. No, I'm joking. just some of those special biscuits in the yellow tin; I hallucinate about them. And some Floris soap, and perfume, Fracas. Oh! And undies from Janet Reger the same as you brought last time, and while you're about it, some real English tea, Earl Grey. Easy, old girl, Michael chided her. Lad's not a camel, you know.

  Keep it down to a ton. Later that afternoon, they drove Daniel out to the airport and put him on the British Airways flight. It landed at Heathrow at seven the next morning.

  That same evening the telephone in Daniel's Chelsea flat rang.

  Nobody knew he was back in town. He debated with himself whether to make the effort to answer it, and gave in after the tenth peal. He couldn't ignore such persistence. Danny, is it really you, or that cursed answering machine? I refuse to talk to a robot, matter of principle.

  He recognized Michael Hargreave's voice immediately. What is it, Mike?

  Is Wendy okay? Where are you? Still in Lusaka. Both of us fine, old boy. More than I can say for your pal, Omeru. You were right, Danny.

  News has just broken. He's got the axe. Military coup. We've just had a signal from our office in Kahah. What's happened to Omeru?

  Who's the new man in power? Don't know to both questions. Sorry, Danny. It's all a bit confused still. Should be on the BBC news your end, but I'll ring again tomorrow as soon as I have any more details.

  That evening it was tucked in at the end of the news on BBC 1 over a file photograph of President Victor Omeru. just a bare statement of the coup d'tat in Ubomo, and the takeover by a military junta. On the Tv screen Omeru was a craggily handsome man in his late sixties. His hair was a silver fleece and he was ligbr-skinned, the colour of old amber. His gaze from the television screen was calm and direct. Then the weather forecast came on and Daniel was left with a sense of melancholy.

  He had met Victor Omeru only once, five years ago, when the President had granted him an interview covering the dispute with Zaire and Uganda over the fishing rights in Lake Albert.

  They had spent only an hour together, but Daniel had been impressed by the old man's eloquence and presence, and even more so by his obvious commitment to his people, to all the various tribal groupings that made up his little state, and to the preservation of the forest, savannah and lakes that were their national heritage. We see the riches of our lakes and forests as an asset that must be managed for posterity, not something that is to be devoured at a single sitting.

  We look upon nature's bounty as a renewable resource which all the people of Ubomo have the right to share, even those generations as yet unborn. That is why we resist the plunder of the lakes by our neighbours, Victor Omeru had told him, and it was wisdom of a kind that Daniel had seldom heard from any other statesman. His heart had gone out to someone who shared his own love and concern for the land that had given them birth. Now Victor Omeru was gone and Africa would be a poorer, sadder place for his passing.

  Daniel spent the whole of Monday in the City talking to his bank-manager and his agent. It went well and Daniel was in a far better mood when he returned to the flat at nine-thirty that evening.

  There was another message from Michael on the answering machine.

  God, I hate this contraption. Call me when you come in, Danny. It would be two hours later in Lusaka, but he took Michael at his word.r />
  Did I get you out of bed, Mike? No matter, Danny.

  Hadn't turned the light off yet. just one bit of news for you. The new man in Ubomo is Colonel Ephrem Taffari. Forty-two years old.

  Apparently educated at London School of Economics and University of Budapest. Other than that, nobody knows much about him except that he has already changed the country's name to the People's Democratic Republic of Ubomo.

  had sign. In African Socialist-speak.

  "democratic" means "tyrannical". There have been reports of executions of members of the former government, but one expects that.

  What about Omeru? Daniel demanded. it was strange how strongly his sympathies inclined towards someone he had known for such a short time so long ago.

  Not specifically mentioned on the butcher's bill, but presumed to be amongst those put to the wall. Let me know if you pick up anything about my friends Chetti Singh or Ning Cheng Gong. Will do, Danny. Now Daniel put the events in Ubomo out of his mind and his world shrank down to the space enclosed by the four walls of the cutting-room at the studio in Shepherd's Bush. Day after day, he sat in the semi-darkness, concentrating his entire being on the small glowing screen of the editing console.

  In the evenings, dizzy with mental exhaustion and red-eyed with strain, he staggered out into the street and caught a taxi back to the flat, stopping only at Partridge's in Sloane Street to pick up the makings of a sandwich supper. Each morning he awoke in darkness before dawn and was back at the studio long before the daily commuter invasion of the city was under way.

  He was caught up in an ecstasy of creative endeavour. It heightened his emotional awareness to the point where all of his existence was in those lambent images that flashed before his eyes. The words to describe them bloomed in his mind so that he spoke into the microphone of the recorder with only occasional references to his notes.