Golden Fox

by Wilbur Smith

  The pesticide and poisons division of Capricorn Chemicals was situated half a mile from the administrative block. The party drove down in a convoy with the minister’s black Cadillac in the lead. Isabella sat beside him in the back seat and pointed out features of the Capricorn plant.

  ‘This section here is the uranium enrichment plant. You see how we have made it appear to be merely an extension of the main bulk phosphate refinery . . .’

  The minister of defence had the reputation of possessing a fiery temper. However, she had always got on well with him, and respected him for his dedication and political acumen. They chatted in friendly fashion during the short drive until they drew up at the front gate of the pesticide and agricultural poisons plant. This was a separate compound within the main complex.

  It was surrounded by a twelve-foot diamond-mesh fence. There were prominent warning notices placed at intervals along the fence. These featured red skull-and-crossbones designs with warnings in three languages: ‘Danger! Gevaar! Ingozi!’

  The guards at the main gate had Rottweiler guard-dogs on leads. The plant was screened by a grove of trees. The building was long and low, the walls were of natural stone and all the external windows were smoked one-way glass. There was a further security check at the entrance, and even the minister was asked to pass through the electronic scanner.

  The Israeli director led them down a series of carpeted corridors, each separated by steel fire- and gas-proof doors, until finally they entered the new Cyndex extension. The building was still so new that it smelt of raw concrete. They assembled in a small entrance-lobby. The gas-doors closed behind them, and the director addressed them.

  ‘Strict safety procedures are in force in this section of the building. You will notice the air-conditioning.’ He gestured at the panels in the walls. ‘The quality of air in the building is strictly monitored at all times. In the highly unlikely event of a leak developing, the air can be pumped out and changed within ten seconds.’ For a few minutes more he elaborated on the building’s safety features. ‘However, for your further safety, before entering the main plant you will be required to don protective suits.’

  There were separate changing-rooms for the sexes. In the women’s room a coloured female attendant assisted Isabella to strip to her underwear, and then she hung her suit in one of the lockers for her. She helped Isabella into the one-piece white protective overall that had been laid out for her. There were white plastic boots and gloves, and she showed Isabella how to place the helmet over her head and switch on the compressed-air supply. There was a clear plastic visor, and the air-cylinder was contained in a neat back-pack that formed part of the helmet attachment. There were built-in headphones that permitted normal conversation.

  Isabella returned to the lobby and rejoined the rest of the party.

  ‘If we are all ready, my lady and gentlemen?’ The director turned to the door in the far wall. It slid open, and they trooped through. There were four technicians to welcome them. Isabella noticed that, while the visitors wore white suits, the four technicians were in chrome yellow and the director’s suit was tomato red for easy identification.

  One of the yellow-suited technicians ushered them down yet another short corridor. As they went, he fell in beside Isabella.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Courtney,’ he said softly, and with a small shock she recognized his voice and she looked into his visor.

  ‘Hello, Mr Afrika,’ she murmured. ‘How are you enjoying your job with Capricorn?’ It was the first time she had seen him since London.

  ‘It is very interesting, thank you.’ That was all that passed between them before they entered the test-room, but Lothar De La Rey had been watching her. As they seated themselves in the row of padded leather armchairs Lothar took the seat beside Isabella and asked: ‘Wie is die kaffir? Who is the nigger?’

  ‘His name is Afrika. He has a degree in chemical engineering.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ Lothar insisted.

  ‘I was on the selection committee who recruited him.’

  ‘He has security clearance, of course?’

  ‘Of course. He was cleared by your own department,’ she added artlessly. He nodded, and they turned their attention back to the director.

  ‘These are the test-cubicles.’ At the end of the room were four windows that looked in upon separate chambers; each was the size of a telephone booth – or a toilet cabinet was a better description, Isabella decided.

  ‘The windows are of double armoured glass,’ the director pointed out. ‘And you will notice the monitors above each.’ He pointed to the electronic panels on which vital life functions were displayed in green LED printout.

  Behind the windows, strapped to bare white plastic chairs were four small humanoid figures. For a moment Isabella thought they were children – and then the director explained.

  ‘The test subjects are baboons of the genus Papio ursinus. They may seem unfamiliar to you, because they have been shaved to resemble human subjects more closely. You will notice that Number One is almost completely unprotected.’

  The naked shaven body strapped to the chair in the first cubicle was pathetically vulnerable-looking. The infant’s disposable nappy which was its only garment added to the poignancy.

  ‘Number Two is wearing clothing that resembles normal military uniform.’

  This baboon was dressed in a miniature suit of combat fatigues, but the arms and head were unprotected.

  ‘Number Three is fully covered except for eyes, mouth and nose.’ The animal wore gloves and a soft plastic hood which left only its face bare.

  ‘Number Four is equipped with a fully protective suit, similar to those which have been issued to you. These will be worn by friendly forces when handling or disseminating Cyndex 25.’ He paused. ‘I may add that subjects One, Two and Three have been sedated. There will be physical symptoms apparent upon application of the test agent, but these are reflexive reactions of the central nervous system and should not be construed as indicating the degree of suffering that the animal is undergoing.’

  Isabella felt her stomach muscles tightening, and despite the filtered air she was breathing her chest felt tight and constricted.

  ‘Cyndex 25 is colourless and odourless. However, for safety reasons we have added the scent of almonds to our gas. There will be no aerosol mist or any other indication of its application, except via the monitoring equipment. The readout will show parts of Cyndex 25 in one hundred thousand parts of air.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘Now, gentlemen – and my lady – if you are ready, we will proceed with the demonstration.’

  The minister nodded his helmeted head, and the director gave a terse order into the microphone on his desk. Isabella imagined Ben or one of the other technicians adjusting the controls in the back room.

  For a few seconds nothing happened. The breathing and the heartbeats of the four baboons continued sedately tracing regular luminous green patterns on the screens.

  Then the panel registering the concentration of Cyndex 25 in the inflowing air flickered and moved up from zero to 5 – five parts of nerve gas in one hundred thousand parts of air.

  Within seconds the displays began to alter – all except that above the fully suited baboon. The heartbeats accelerated swiftly, the breathing became rapid and deep. The changes were most violent on the display panel above the naked ape.

  Isabella stared at it in horror. She saw its eyelids flicker, and tears began to run down the shaven face. It mouthed the air, its tongue lolling and rolling between its lips. Strings of silver saliva drooled down on to its chest.

  ‘Fifteen seconds,’ intoned the director. ‘Subject Number One is now incapacitated. Number Four is unaffected, Two and Three are registering medium to acute symptoms.’

  The naked baboon began to writhe and struggle against the retaining straps. Isabella tasted the bitter bile rising in the back of her throat and swallowed it down.

  Suddenly the baboon opened its mouth wide and sh
rieked. The thin agonized cry carried to them even through the double-glazed windows. It ripped along Isabella’s nerve-endings. She clenched her fists and felt cold sickly sweat break out beneath the clinging white suit. Beside her she felt Lothar De La Rey stir, and all around her the other men made small instinctive gestures of revulsion and discomfort. They were soldiers and policemen hardened to atrocity and suffering, yet they shuffled their feet, clenched gloved hands or made ducking, twisting movements of their heads.

  All three of the exposed animals were twitching and kicking, rolling their heads, arching their spines in spasmodic convulsions. The mucous linings of their tongues and of their open screaming mouths turned a bright boiled scarlet, their fluttering streaming eyeballs glazed over with a network of bloodshot veins. They began to vomit. The nappy that the first baboon wore was soiled by a spreading stain of urine and faeces.

  Isabella fought down the waves of nausea that rose to engulf her. She wanted to scream, to run, to hide from the horror of it.

  ‘One minute five seconds. Number One all vital life-signs terminated.’ The pathetic childlike corpse hung against the straps. Its shaven nakedness was aberrant and obscene.

  ‘Two minutes fifteen seconds. Number Two terminated.’

  ‘Three minutes eight seconds. Number Three terminated.’

  ‘You will notice that Number Four is totally unaffected. The suit has afforded complete protection.’

  Isabella rose to her feet. ‘Excuse me,’ she blurted. She had been determined to outlast any of the men in the room. Her vow was forgotten now. She fled down the corridor and burst into the women’s changing-room.

  She ripped the helmet from her head and dropped on her knees and clutched the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl with both hands. She choked and sobbed, and her horror and pity and guilt shot up her throat in a thick bitter acid stream and spewed into the bowl.

  After what she had just experienced Isabella could not bring herself to return to the blissful domestic environment of Garry and Holly’s home.

  She left the Capricorn plant without seeing the minister or Lothar or any of the other officials. She drove without attention to her surroundings. She drove fast, too fast, pushing the Porsche up near its top speed. She was trying to expurgate her shame in the elemental and purifying sensation of speed. The attempt was not successful. After an hour she turned back towards Johannesburg and slowed the Porsche to a more moderate pace.

  The fuel-tank was almost empty, and she pulled into the next service station that she reached. While the attendant refuelled her tank she realized that she had lost track of her whereabouts. This was not her home town. She knew only that she was somewhere in the network of roads and the maze of residential suburbs that surround the huge industrial and mining complex of the city of Johannesburg.

  She asked the attendant which was the quickest route from here back to Sandton. As soon as he explained where she was, she realized that fate or her own subconscious had guided her. She was only two or three miles from Michael’s home. A few years previously, Michael had bought himself a smallholding of fifty acres on which stood a dilapidated farmhouse. It was close enough to the offices of the Golden City Mail for him to commute to work. Michael had set about renovating the house on a do-it-yourself basis. He planted a hundred or so fruit trees, much to the delight of the birds and locusts and aphids, and he kept a flock of chickens that wandered into the kitchen and defecated on the sink and down the refrigerator door.

  ‘Well, it’s their home, too,’ Michael had explained to her when she remonstrated. ‘A turd or two never hurt anybody.’ Although Michael’s original intention had been to convert the birds into an endless series of poulet rôti and coq au vin, he had so far not been able to bring himself to chop off a single head. Some of the birds had already died of old age.

  ‘Michael!’ Isabella felt her spirits lighten and she checked her wristwatch. It was after six. He should be home by now. ‘Michael is exactly the person I need right now.’

  As she drove along the winding track through the scraggly blue-gum plantation that marked the boundary of Michael’s estate, she saw his Volkswagen Kombi parked in front of the house. Michael’s old Valiant had finally passed away. She smiled as she remembered Michael’s description of how an electrical short-circuit had self-ignited in rush-hour traffic and the ancient vehicle had given itself a Viking’s funeral and created a five-mile traffic-jam as its own cortège of mourners. She noted that the Kombi, acquired secondhand, seemed not to be in much better shape.

  One half of the tin roof of Michael’s home was painted in fresh sparkling apple green, the other half was in genuine red rust. He had lost heart in the middle of the renovations.

  Michael had also cleared a landing-strip down one boundary of his property and had registered it as a private airfield with the directorate of civil aviation. He kept his old Cessna Centurion aircraft in a hangar at the far end of his fruit orchard. The building was constructed with secondhand corrugated-iron sheets that Michael had purchased cheaply from a scrapyard. The resulting edifice was very much in keeping with Michael’s usual style.

  She found him in the hangar working in the interior of the blue and white aircraft. She tugged at the leg of his overalls, and he crawled out backwards and registered surprise and pleasure. They hadn’t seen each other for almost a year.

  After he had kissed her, he fetched a bottle of wine from the rusty old refrigerator in the corner and filled two tumblers. Only then did Isabella notice that he seemed nervous and distracted. He kept glancing at his watch and going to the door of the hangar. She was hurt and disappointed.

  ‘You are expecting somebody,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Mickey. I should have phoned you beforehand. I hope I haven’t put you out.’

  ‘No, of course not. Not at all,’ he assured her, but stood up with alacrity and obvious relief. ‘But . . . well, to tell the truth . . .’ his voice trailed off, and once again he glanced over her head towards the door.

  One of his lovers, she thought bitterly. He’s worried that I will meet his latest fancy boy. She resented him not being available when she needed him so badly, and cut short their farewells.

  She watched him in the rearview mirror as she drove back through the trees. He looked lonely and vulnerable, and her anger at him evaporated.

  Poor dear Mickey, she thought. You are as lost and unhappy as I am.

  She checked the Porsche at the gate to the property, and then pulled out and turned eastward on to the main tarmac highway heading back towards Sandton. There was another vehicle approaching. It was a nondescript grey van. As it drew level, she casually glanced sideways at the driver and immediately straightened up in the seat. The driver was her brother Ben. He had not noticed her and was in conversation with the black man who sat in the passenger-seat beside him. The passenger was much darker-skinned than Ben, a full-blooded Zulu or Xhosa, with striking features and a smouldering expression. It was not the kind of face that one would readily forget.

  She slowed the Porsche and watched the departing vehicle in her rearview mirror. Suddenly the rear brake-lights of the van glowed red, and then the turning-indicator began to flick on and off. The van turned into the track leading to Michael’s house and disappeared amongst the blue gums.

  ‘Mystery solved,’ Isabella muttered, and accelerated the Porsche. ‘Although I don’t understand why Michael didn’t want me to see Ben. He knows that I arranged the job at Capricorn for him.’ She considered it for a moment longer. ‘It must be the man with Ben. That’s a face of remember. I wonder who he is?’

  It was almost eight and the sun had already set when she pulled into the garage under Garry’s house in Sandton.

  ‘Damn it,’ Garry greeted her as she entered the living-room. ‘Where the hell have you been? Do you know what the time is?’ Both Garry and Holly were in evening dress. It was not often she saw Garry angry.

  ‘Oh my God! The ball! I’m sorry.’

  Then Garry saw her face, and immed
iately his anger smoothed away. ‘Poor Bella. You look as though you have had a lousy day. We’ll wait while you change.’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘Go ahead. I’ll follow you.’

  For Isabella the evening was a disaster. The partner who Holly had arranged for her was a university professor and a total bore. Because she was a senator he wanted to discuss politics all evening.

  ‘Don’t you think I get enough of that?’ she asked tartly, and he sulked at the rebuke. She left early. The rest of the night was troubled and nightmare-ridden. She dreamt of the shaven ape dressed in military battledress and strapped into the white chair.

  Somewhere in her dreams the tortured creature changed identity and became her own little Nicky in his suit of camouflage. She woke in a cold trembling welter of sweat and horror.

  She could not risk sleep again, nor the fantasies that sleep might bring. She sat in a chair and read until dawn defined the outline of the windows. She ran a bath, but before she could step into it there was a knock at the door of her suite. When she opened it, Garry stood on the threshold in a silk dressing gown. His hair was in disarray and his eyes were bleary and swollen with sleep.

  ‘I have just had a call from Pater at Weltevreden,’ he told her.

  ‘At this hour? Is everything all right? Is it Nana?’

  ‘No. He told me to tell you that both of them are well.’

  ‘Then, what did he want?’

  ‘He wants you and me to fly down to Weltevreden immediately.’

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘Yes. You and me. Immediately.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say. Just that it’s a matter of life and death.’

  She stared at Garry. ‘What can it be?’

  ‘How soon can you be ready to leave – half an hour?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ll ring Lanseria Airport and tell them to have the Lear ready and the pilots standing by.’ He checked his watch. ‘We can be in Cape Town before ten o’clock’