Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  The man at Immigration gave him four months, asked what other books he had written and told John, who hastily invented a couple, that they were very good books. The Customs official wanted to know why he had four dozen small glass bottles and several glass funnels in his suitcase. ‘I collect sand,’ appeared to satisfy him.

  Bernard had said he’d be met. A tall African, holding a white card with John’s name written on it and yelling, ‘Mr Deborie, Mr Deborie,’ was the likely candidate.

  ‘I am John Devereaux.’ He put out his hand.

  ‘Mr Deborie, sir, I am Mr Kadamanja, your assistant.’ The man seemed flustered by John’s outstretched hand but finally offered his own and they shook in a thumb, palm, thumb African clasp.

  ‘I take it I’ve just missed the Blantyre flight?’

  ‘Not a problem, Mr Deborie. We will drive. There are no more flights until tomorrow.’

  John groaned inwardly. A four hour drive after travelling from London via Johannesburg, when all he wanted to do was shower and get into fresh clothes, was a very large pain in the arse. He questioned the sanity of whoever had scheduled a shuttle between the capital and the business centre to miss an incoming flight, and speculated briefly on the intellect of one who considered ten-thirty in the morning to be the perfect time for the last flight. But all he said was, ‘You drive, Mr Kadamanja, I’m a bit tired.’

  On the way he tried to talk Mr Kadamanja into calling him John but was told, ‘I could not, Mr Deborie, it would be too very rude.’ So John spent some time trying to get the man to say his name properly. He did not believe he could spend the next couple of months with someone who insisted on calling him something which sounded suspiciously like ‘debris’. No luck there. Kadamanja simply could not get his tongue around ‘Devereaux’. Finally, at the African’s suggestion, it was agreed he would be called ‘sir’. ‘When we know each other better perhaps I can call you sir John,’ Kadamanja said helpfully, blissfully ignorant of British titles.

  John let it go.

  Kadamanja talked in fits and starts and John was content to let him. In the first place, the man was a terrible driver and John preferred to think his attention was entirely on the road. Besides, Malawi interested and impressed him and he was happy to watch the scenery, rather than the near misses with oncoming traffic. He noticed how clear of litter the roadsides were. Neat villages, with thatched-roof mudbrick huts nestling under shady branches, appeared every few kilometres and each showed the industrious and self-sufficient nature of rural Malawi. Banana groves, maize and ridged rows of cassava grew all around the villages but space had been left for children to play, meetings to take place and for chickens to scratch and peck to their hearts’ content. Goats and hump-backed zebra cattle grazed under the watchful eyes of their owners. Colourfully dressed women worked in the fields, gossiped to each other as they queued at wells for water, or tended young children. Everywhere had a busy, contented and well-ordered appearance.

  The few small towns through which they passed had none of the urban slums found throughout Africa. Shops showed the influence of Indian traders, with brightly coloured facades advertising everything from headache powder to shoes. Bustling markets displayed their wares and bartering was conducted in smiling, friendly banter.

  ‘This looks like a very happy country,’ John observed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Kadamanja agreed proudly. ‘Malawians have no need for sadness.’

  ‘I wonder,’ John thought. But he said, ‘You are very lucky then. In other parts of Africa the people are not so well off.’

  Mr Kadamanja shook his head. ‘So sorry,’ he said, making it sound as though he were personally responsible.

  Just south of a place called Dedza, where the land on their left was Malawi but, on the other side of the road, Mozambique – although no border fence separated the two countries – Kadamanja stopped the car and pointed eastwards. ‘There is the lake, sir.’

  John got out of the car. The crisp air surprised him. He knew they had climbed since leaving Lilongwe but had not realised how high. Stretching away to the east the highland country seemed endless but, right on the horizon, he could make out a smudge of pale blue which followed the land as far as he could see. The view was magnificent. He felt as if he were standing on the very top of the world. The lake must have been forty to fifty kilometres away. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, getting back into the car. ‘I’ve never seen a view like it.’

  Mr Kadamanja nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  An hour later they might have been on a different planet. Dropping down from the mountains, the land became typically African savanna and, winding down his window, John felt the stickiness of sultry valley air. They crossed the Shiré River along a long low bridge and he watched a dozen or more hippopotamus playing in the water. ‘That is Liwonde National Park,’ Kadamanja told him, waving his hand to the left of the road. ‘They have many angry elephants in there.’

  From Liwonde, the land became undulating and wooded. Despite his earlier irritation at having to make the trip by car, John watched the passing country with increasing interest. Malawi seemed to have everything. The variety was incredible considering the size of the place.

  Blantyre, named after the birthplace of Scottish missionary David Livingstone, was another pleasant surprise. Modern shopping facilities and office blocks sat side by side with imposing church architecture of the last century, street vendor markets and squat Indian trading houses. The city was a multicultured integration of the best of all worlds. The scrupulously clean streets were wide enough to turn a full span of oxen and the pavements could accommodate at least eight pedestrians abreast.

  John had been booked into the Mount Soche Hotel. It was just before three in the afternoon when they pulled up outside the five-storied neat white building set in luxurious gardens right on the edge of the central business district. Inside, John was relieved to find the air-conditioning working perfectly. Mr Kadamanja, having handed him over to the Assistant Manager, departed saying, ‘I am seeing you at nine-thirty tomorrow, sir.’

  Left to his own devices John checked in. A shower and change of clothes eased the tiredness of almost twenty-four hours of non-stop travel. The banks, he learned from the receptionist, shut at one o’clock but the hotel offered a limited banking service. He changed some traveller’s cheques to the local currency, Kwacha and tambala, observing with some surprise that they had a fifty tambala note which equated to about twenty pence.

  At four-thirty he made his presence in the country known at the British High Commission, a precaution he always took when working in the Third World. ‘Is Martin Flower available?’ he asked the girl at reception. Bernard had told him not to concern himself with Robin Cunningham’s disappearance but he figured he might as well see if there had been any new developments.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Fraid not.’ John gave her his best boyish grin, the one which melted even Miss Bagshaw’s impenetrable armour.

  The receptionist was made of sterner stuff. ‘I’m sorry. He’s very busy. Perhaps tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Won’t be here tomorrow,’ John said breezily. He raised his voice an octave. Several doors opened onto a passage behind the reception area. If Martin Flower occupied one of the inner offices, he might overhear. ‘Actually, I’m making enquiries about a friend of mine who seems to have disappeared.’

  Bingo! A man appeared. ‘It’s okay, Miss Anderson. I have a few minutes to spare.’ He looked towards John. ‘Please come in, Mr...’

  John went through an opening in the counter. ‘Devereaux. John Devereaux.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Devereaux. London mentioned your name. Please, do come in.’ John followed the man. ‘I’m Martin Flower. Sit down please.’ Flower shut his door. ‘Now,’ he said, crossing to his desk. ‘How can I help you?’

  John looked at him carefully. Dark curly hair, penetrating eyes, and the build of a man who liked to keep in shape. His suit could not hide powerful shou
lders, or well-developed muscles on the man’s upper legs. He had about him a kind of controlled alertness with which his manner, bland and polite, did not seem to match. John was willing to bet he was British Intelligence. ‘Just checking in really.

  Thought I’d ask about Robin Cunningham while I’m here. I’m his replacement.’

  Martin Flower sat opposite him and leaned back in his chair. ‘No sign of him unfortunately.’

  John frowned. ‘How could he just disappear?’

  Flower seemed lost in thought. Then, ‘Tell me, Mr Devereaux, exactly what is it you and your friend Cunningham are doing in Malawi.’

  So. Bernard hasn’t confided in the High Commission. ‘Geological survey of the lake bed.’

  ‘Why?’ It was lightly asked but the man’s eyes were attentive.

  ‘It’s never been done. About time it was, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Who commissioned it?’ Flower’s earlier blandness had been replaced by professional interest and he was making no attempt to hide it.

  John thought rapidly. If this man was what he thought he was, it would be best to keep him on side. He probably knew the truth anyway, or most of it. ‘Minister Matenje.’

  Flower’s eyebrows rose. ‘Dick Matenje? Are you sure?’

  John nodded. ‘It’s all a bit hush-hush but I have a meeting with him tomorrow. Why?’

  Flower ignored the question. ‘What’s he up to?’ he mused quietly. He appeared to reach a decision and leaned towards John. ‘Be careful. I don’t like the way Cunningham disappeared. Dick Matenje is big league in this country right now but . . .’ he hesitated. ‘All I can say is there are some alarming undercurrents. You’re likely to hear all sorts of stories.

  Mainly untrue I might add.’ He allowed a small smile to escape. ‘We can’t be sure about Cunningham but we’re assuming he’s in trouble. The best advice I can give you is don’t stick your nose into anything but the job you’ve come to do. Get it done and get out.’ He rose and held out his hand. ‘And don’t be seen with Matenje,’ he added. ‘Shit sticks. Good luck.’

  John shook his hand. ‘Thank you.’ Then he added, ‘give my regards to Jean-Claude Bourquin.’ Jean-Claude was a cousin who worked for French Intelligence and John knew he had been involved with the British on several occasions.

  Flower looked him over carefully. ‘Never heard of him,’ he replied mildly. As he moved towards the door he said softly, ‘Besides, dear boy, the Foreign Office would never employ a Frenchman, no matter how good his credentials.’

  With no car and no contacts, John made his way back to the Mount Soche and spent what was left of the afternoon by the pool reading the local newspaper, The Daily Times. There was virtually no international news but much comment on local events and praise for the President. In the entertainment section his eye was caught by a small article:

  DRUNKEN HYENA KILLED

  On Friday morning, a man killed a hyena with an axe in Nthache Village.

  Some people in the village say that the hyena had drunk some beer which was brewed outside a certain woman’s house on the previous night.

  ‘The hyena looked so drunk that it could not harm anyone,’ the people said.

  He was still chuckling over this when a shadow fell across the newspaper. Looking up he could make out nothing more than a large shape blocking the setting sun. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  The accent was South African, with the rasp of a forty-a-day man.

  ‘Please do.’

  The man lowered himself into a canvas chair. ‘Karl Henning,’ he said, sticking out his hand. The flimsy chair creaked and lurched in protest.

  ‘John Devereaux.’ The hand was huge and calloused. His grip almost painful.

  ‘Found something funny in our newspaper I see.’

  ‘This.’ John showed him the article.

  Karl Henning laughed with his belly. ‘Bloody typical. Last week we had a front page story about a rat in a tie.’

  ‘Slow news day?’

  ‘No such thing in Malawi. Bad news is forbidden so most of the time they’re scratching around to find something to put in the paper. This is the land of cotton wool.’

  John wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. He looked the man over. He must have weighed around 130 kilograms but, because of his height, the weight sat comfortably on his frame although there were the definite beginnings of a beer belly. He appeared to be about forty but had one of those faces which could belong to a much younger man, or one who was as much as ten years older. Square jaw, broken nose, faded blue eyes, reddish-brown face and thick straight blond hair. His nicotine-stained moustache was in urgent need of clipping. His etched granite face said, ‘I’m a nice guy but don’t cross me.’

  A waiter appeared. John asked for a gin and tonic. Henning ordered an ‘MGT’.

  ‘Do you live here?’ John asked.

  ‘Not in Blantyre. Up north. Kasungu.’ He saw John’s puzzlement and added, ‘Just over a hundred clicks north of Lilongwe.’

  ‘What do you do up there?’

  ‘Tobacco. I farm flue-cured.’

  ‘Must be a bit lonely?’

  Again the belly laugh. ‘Lonely? No way, man. Some of the biggest flue-cured tobacco estates in the world are up there. And now we have the bloody academy, all expat staff. Mind you, they’re a waste of a good white skin most of them. Bloody academics. They’re a fair way out of town, which is just as well. They keep to themselves mainly. Stuck-up bunch as ever you saw.’

  John wondered what the teachers had done to deserve such a scathing attack. ‘What academy would that be?’ In his research John had not found any mention of an academy.

  Henning laughed derisively. ‘What else would they call it? Kamuzu Academy. It opened last year. They say that H. E. funded it personally. Free education for the nation’s brightest. Run along the same lines as one of your public schools.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

  Henning frowned. ‘Good idea sure, but I hate to think what it’s costing the government.’

  ‘Maybe His Excellency is funding it himself.’

  Faded blue eyes observed him. There was something in them, something behind their smile which made John cautious.

  ‘You’re not an academic are you?’ He made the word sound like a four-letter one.

  John smiled and shook his head.

  ‘So what brings you to the Warm Heart of Africa?’

  John considered his author story but discounted it. It was one thing to use it as a cover with the immigration authorities but quite another to try and deceive this man, Karl Henning. ‘If you’re going to tell a lie, keep it as close to the truth as possible.’ He remembered a housemaster at school telling him that after falling foul of an outrageously audacious lie as to why he had liquor on his breath.

  ‘I’m a geologist,’ he told Henning. ‘I work for myself and accept freelance work from a number of different companies in London.’ That much was true. ‘I’m doing a seismic survey.’

  The waiter reappeared with their drinks. The MGT ordered by Henning looked exactly the same as John’s drink and he commented on it.

  ‘It is the same. That’s how it’s ordered. There’s a distillery here making the stuff. Not a bad drop, better than most of the big brands.’

  ‘Will mine be Malawi gin?’

  ‘Nope. You have to specify, otherwise you get an expensive imported brand.’

  John laughed. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  The faded blue eyes penetrated John over the rim of his glass. Then Henning swallowed half the MGT in one go, not seeming to mind that the liquid had to be strained through his moustache. ‘Not many earthquakes in this area,’ he said finally, returning to the previous subject. ‘Why would anybody want that information?’

  ‘The lake bed has never been properly mapped. Scientists want to know what’s under there.’

  Henning laughed derisively. ‘Bugger-all I’d say.’

  John shrugged. ‘You never know until you look,’ he
said mildly. ‘Malawi could do with some resources.’

  ‘Malawi has plenty of resources,’ Henning said, sounding belligerent. ‘Trouble is, the silly sods don’t know what to do with them.’

  John was starting to dislike him. ‘I disagree. You’ve got to start somewhere and this is as good a start as anywhere. The company commissioned to undertake this work –’

  ‘Would do better to stay at home and mind their own business,’ Henning interjected rudely. ‘What do you hope to find anyway?’

  ‘Whatever’s there,’ John said evenly, refusing to be drawn into further explanation.

  Karl Henning looked reflective. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I wonder if H. E. knows about it.’ He drained the rest of his drink and heaved himself out of the chair. ‘Well, nice talking to you. See you around.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ John wondered, watching the tall man stride away. Henning appeared to have deliberately struck up a conversation, then gone out of his way to be disparaging. John had the uncomfortable feeling that the man had been probing for information. Why? The survey was supposed to be a secret. And that remark about whether President Banda knew about the survey. Was it a threat? He shook his head, troubled. He’d had a bad feeling about the secrecy from the start. The sooner the job was over the better as far as he was concerned.

  John dined alone in the hotel’s Michiru restaurant, experimenting with smoked kampango, a local catfish served on lettuce leaves, liberally sprinkled with ground black peppercorns and fresh lemon juice which, the waiter told him proudly, was as good as any smoked salmon. ‘It might be,’ John thought, putting down his knife and fork, ‘if it weren’t still frozen.’ Rather reluctantly he tried the grilled fillets of chambo. It was the finest fish he had ever eaten, except perhaps for the sea trout he occasionally fished in Scotland. Still in experimental mode, he washed his meal down with a bottle of two-year-old South African Chenin Blanc from the Cape Province, dry but refreshingly free of astringency.

  Pleasantly tired, John left the dining room and headed for the lifts. On his way through the foyer he found Karl Henning in earnest conversation with a tall, meticulously dressed Malawian. So deeply engrossed were they that although John nodded and said, ‘Good night,’ Henning did not even acknowledge him.