by Wilbur Smith
“How about banana custard?” The waiter shook his head.
“No got.” But Daniel could tell by his expression that he was getting warm. Daniel stood up and crossed to a Nigerian businessman at the next table.
“Excuse me, sir, what is that you are eating?” He returned to his own table. “I’ll have Banana Delight,” he said, and the waiter nodded happily.
“Yes, tonight got Banana Delight.”
This little comedy restored Daniel’s good humour and sense of the ridiculous. AWA, Daniel reassured him. Africa Wins Again. And the waiter looked delighted at such obvious praise and encouragement.
The next morning Daniel headed eastwards towards Chipata and the Malawi border. There was not much point in expecting a sustaining breakfast from the hotel and anyway he was away long before the kitchens opened. He had covered almost a hundred miles before the sun rose, and he kept going most of the day, stopping only to eat beside the road.
He reached the border the following morning and crossed into Malawi with a lightening of his spirits. Not only was this tiny country even more spectacularly beautiful than the one he was leaving, but in comparison the mood of its people was contented and carefree. Malawi was known as the Switzerland of Africa for its grand mountains and highland plateaux and its lakes and lovely rivers. Its people were famous throughout the southern continent for their intelligence and adaptability. They were sought after at every level of employment from domestic servants to miners and industrial workers. Lacking viable mineral deposits, Malawi’s most valuable asset and export were her people.
Under the benevolent despotism of their octogenarian president-for-life, the special talents and strengths of the Malawian people were encouraged and fostered. The rural areas were not neglected and the urban migration was checked. Each family was ordered by the leader to build its own home and make itself self-sufficient in food.
As cash crops they grew cotton and ground-nuts. On the large Mountainside estates they raised a superior leaf of tea.
As Daniel drove towards the capital, Lilongwe, the contrast with the country he had just left was striking. The villages he passed were clean and orderly and prosperous. The people on the roadside were sleek, well-dressed and smiling. Most of the handsome women favoured a full-length skirt printed with the national colours and a portrait of Kamuzu Hastings Banda, the president. Short skirts were forbidden in Malawi by presidential decree, as was long hair on men.
Along the roadside, food and carved wooden curios were offered for sale. It was strange to see a surplus of food in any African country. Daniel stopped to buy eggs and oranges, mandarins, luscious red tomatoes and roasted ground-nuts, and also to exchange cheerful banter with the vendors.
After the misery and deprivation he had witnessed in the country he had so recently left, his mood was uplifted by these delightful people. Given the circumstances to make a good life, there are few peoples on earth so friendly and charming as those of Africa. Daniel found his regard for them strengthened and renewed. “If you don’t like black people, then you shouldn’t be living in Africa,” Daniel’s father had once said to him. It was a remark that had remained in his memory all these years, the validity of it growing ever more evident.
As he approached Lilongwe Daniel was struck even more forcefully by the contrast with other capitals of the continent. It was a recent capital, planned and built with architectural advice and financial help from South Africa. There was no slum stench here. Instead it was a pretty town, modern and functional. Daniel found it good to be back again.
The Capital Hotel was surrounded by parks and lawns but conveniently situated close to the centre of the town. As soon as he was alone in his room, Daniel checked the local telephone directory which he found in the bedside drawer.
Chetti Singh was a big man in town and obviously enjoyed the sound of his own name. There was a string of numbers listed. He seemed to have his fingers in every honey pot: Chetti Singh Fisheries, Chetti Singh Supermarkets, Chetti Singh Tannery, Cheti Singh Sawmills and Lumber, Chetti Singh Garages and Toyota Agency. The list took up half the page.
“Not a difficult bird to point,” Daniel admitted to himself. “Now let’s see if we can get him to flush for a good sporting shot.”
While he shaved and showered an attentive room servant carted his travel-stained clothing off to the laundry and ironed a clean but crumpled bush jacket to starchy perfection. Good excuse.
“I need to restock the tucker box,” Daniel told himself as he went downstairs and asked the receptionist directions to Chetti Singh’s supermarket.
“Across the park.” The man pointed.
With assumed nonchalance Daniel sauntered across the park. It occurred to him that he was hardly the most inconspicuous visitor in town, with his London tailored bush jacket, silk scarf, and the spectacularly travel-dusted and battered Landcruiser with his strong-arm motif emblazoned all over it. Let’s pray that Chetti Singh never got a good look at me or the truck that night. Chetti Singh’s supermarket was on Main Street in a new four-storey building of modern layout, with clean tiled floors and walls. The shelves were piled with abundant wares, all reasonably priced, and the premises were thronged with customers. In Africa this was unusual.
While Daniel joined the relays of housewives wheeling their shopping trolleys down the aisles between the shelves, he was studying the building and its staff. Four young Asian girls sat at the cash registers guarding the exit. They were quick and efficient. Under their graceful brown fingers the registers tinkled to the sweet music of Mammon. Chetti Singh’s daughters, Daniel guessed as he noted the family resemblance. They were pretty as sunbirds, in their brightly coloured saris.
In the centre of the floor a middle-aged Asian lady sat at a tall dais from which she could keep a beady eye on every corner of the shop. She wore her hair in an iron-grey plait and though her said was more subdued in colour, it was edged with gold thread and the diamonds on her fingers ranged from the size of peas to sparrows eggs. Mama Singh, Daniel decided. When it came to handling the cash, Asian businessmen liked to keep it close to home, which was probably one of the reasons for their universal success. He took his time selecting groceries, hoping for a glimpse of his quarry, but there was no sign of the turbaned Sikh.
At last Mama Singh left her seat on the dais and made an elephantine but dignified progress down the length of the store, until, with her long silken sari sweeping the treads, she mounted a flight of stairs set so discreetly in a corner of the food hall that Daniel had not noticed them before.
She entered a door at a higher level and now Daniel noticed a mirrored window in the wall beside the elevated door. It was obviously a one-way glass. An observer in the room beyond the door would have a clear view over the supermarket floor and Daniel had no doubt that it was Chetti Singh’s office.
He turned away from that inscrutable square of glass, aware that he might have been under observation for the past half hour, and that the precaution was probably too late. He made his way to one of the girls at the cash registers and while she totted up his purchases he kept his face averted from the window in the rear wall.
Chetti Singh stood at the observation window as his wife came into the office. She saw instantly that he was disturbed. He was plucking thoughtfully at his beard and his eyes were slitted. “That white man.” He nodded towards the store floor below the window. “Did you notice him?”
“Yes.” She came to his side. “I noticed him as he came in. I thought he might be a soldier or a policeman.”
“What made you think that?” Chetti Singh demanded.
She made an eloquent gesture with those lovely hands that were so incongruous on a female of her bulk. They were the hands of the young girl he had married almost thirty years ago, and the pale palms were dyed with henna. “He stands tall, and walks with pride,” she explained. “Like a soldier.”
“I think I know him,” Chetti Singh said. “I saw him very recently, but it was at night and I cannot be abs
olutely certain.” He picked up the telephone from his desk and dialed two digits.
Standing at the window, he watched his second daughter pick up the telephone from beside her cash register. Treasure, he spoke in Hindi. “The man at your till. Is he paying with a credit card?”
“Yes, father.” She was the brightest of all his children, as much value to him as a second son, almost.
“Get his name and ask him where he is staying in town.” Chetti Singh hung up and watched the white man pay for his purchases and leave the store heavily laden. As soon as he had gone, Chetti Singh dialled again.
“His name is Armstrong,” his daughter told him. “D. A. Armstrong. He says that he is staying at the Capital Hotel.”
“Good. Let me speak to Chavve quickly.” Below him his daughter swivelled her seat and called one of the uniformed security guards from the main doors.
She held out the telephone receiver to him and as he placed it to his ear Chetti Singh asked, “Chawe, did you recognize the malungu who has just left? The tall one with thick curly hair.” Chetti had switched to Angoni.
“I saw him,” the guard replied in the same language. “But I did not recognize him.”
“Four nights ago,” Chetti Singh prompted him. “On the road near Chirundu just after we had loaded the truck. The one who stopped and spoke to us.”
There was silence as Chawe considered the question. Chetti Singh saw him begin to pick at a nostril with his forefinger, a sign of uncertainty and embarrassment. “Perhaps,” Chavve said at last. “I am not sure.” He removed the thick forefinger from his nose and inspected it minutely. He was a man of the Angoni, a distant relative of the royal line of Zulu. His tribe had migrated this far north two hundred years before the time of King Chaka. He was a warrior, not a man given to deep thought.
“Follow him,” Chetti Singh ordered. “Do not let him see you. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Nkosi.” Chawe looked relieved to be ordered into action and he left through the main doors with a spring in his step.
He returned half an hour later, hangdog and crestfallen. As soon as he came in through the main doors Chetti Singh telephoned his daughter again. “Send Chawe up to my office right away!”
Chawe stood in the doorway at the head of the stairs, as big as a gorilla, and Chetti Singh demanded, “Well, did you follow him as I ordered?”
“Nkosi, it is the same man.” Chawe shuffled his feet. Despite his size and strength, he was terrified of Chetti Singh. He had seen what happened to those who displeased the master. In fact, it was Chawe himself who was usually responsible for enforcing his master’s discipline. He did not look directly into his eyes as he went on. “It is the man who spoke to us on the night,” he said, and Chetti Singh frowned quickly.
“Why are you sure now, when you were uncertain before?” Chetti Singh demanded.
“The truck,” Chawe explained. “He went to his truck and put the goods he had bought from us into it. It is the same truck, with a man’s arm painted on the side, Mambo.”
“Good.” Chetti Singh nodded approval. “You did well. Where is the man now?”
“He drove away in the truck.” Chawe looked apologetic. “I could not follow him. I am sorry, Nkosi Kakulu.”
“Never mind. You did well,” Chetti Singh repeated. “Who is on duty at the warehouse tonight?”
“I am, Mambo…” Chawe grinned suddenly, his teeth were large and even and very white, “and, of course, Nandi.”
“Yes, of course.” Chetti Singh stood up. “I will come down to the warehouse this evening after business is closed. I want to make sure that Nandi is ready to do her job. I think we may have trouble tonight. I want everything prepared. Have Nandi in the small cage. I don’t want any mistakes. Do you understand, Chawe?”
“I understand, Mambo.”
“At six o’clock, at the warehouse.” Sometimes it was as well to repeat instructions to Chawe.
“Nkosi.” Chawe sidled from the room, still not looking directly at his master.
After he had gone, Chetti Singh sat staring at the closed door for many minutes before he picked up the telephone again. Direct-dialling to an international exchange was always a lottery in Africa. Zimbabwe was almost a neighbouring state; only the narrow Tete corridor of Mozambique separated them. Nevertheless, it took him a dozen attempts and twenty frustrating minutes before he heard a ringing tone at the other end of the line and was through to the number in Harare.
“Good afternoon. This is the embassy of the Republic of Taiwan. May I help you?”
“I wish speech with the ambassador.”
“I’m sorry. His Excellency is not available at present. May I take a message or put you through to another member of the staff.”
“I am Chetti Singh. We are abundantly acquainted.”
“Please hold on, sir.”
A minute later Cheng came on the line. “You are not to telephone me at this number. We agreed.”
Chetti Singh told him firmly, “This is urgent.”
I absolutely cannot speak on this line. I will call you back within the hour. Give me your number there and wait for me.” The private unlisted telephone on Chetti Singh’s desk rang forty minutes later. “This line is secure,” Cheng told him as he picked it up. “But be discreet.”
“Do you know a white chap named Armstrong? Doctor Armstrong?”
“Yes. I know him.”
“This is the one you met at Chiwewe, and who accosted you on the road regarding certain stains on your clothing, is it not?”
“Yes.” Cheng’s tone was non-committal. “It’s all right, don’t worry. He knows nothing.”
“Then why has he pitched up in Lilongwe?” Chetti Singh demanded. “You still want me not to worry?”
There was a silence. “Lilongwe?” Cheng said at last. “Did he also see you that night on the Chirundu road?”
“Yes.” Chetti Singh tugged at his beard. “He stopped and spoke to me. He asked if I had seen the Parks trucks.”
“When was that? “After we had transferred the ivory to you—?”
“Careful!” Chetti Singh snapped. “But yes, it was after we had parted our separate ways. My men and I were tying down the tarpaulins when this white chap in a truck pulled up–”
Cheng cut in, “How long did you speak to him?”
“A minute, no more than that. Then he went south towards Harare. I think he was following you, without a morsel of doubt.”
“He caught up with Gomo and forced him off the road.” Cheng’s voice was sharp and agitated. “He searched the Parks truck. Of course, he didn’t find anything.”
“He is suspicious, indubitably.”
“Indubitably,” Cheng agreed sarcastically. “But if he spoke to you for only a minute, he cannot connect you. He doesn’t even know who you are.”
“My name and address are boldly imprinted upon my truck,” Chetti-Singh said.
Cheng was silent again for a slow count of five. “I did not notice. That was imprudent, my friend. You should have covered it.”
“It is no good closing the stable door after the bird has flown,” Chetti Singh pointed out.
“Where is the–? Cheng broke off. “Where are the goods? Have you shipped them?”
“Not yet. They will go out tomorrow.”
“Can’t you get rid of them sooner?”
“That is beyond the bounds of possibility.”
“You will have to deal with Armstrong then, if he becomes too curious.”
“Yes,” said Chetti Singh. “I will deal with him most firmly and resolutely. Your side? Is everything taken care of? Your Mercedes?”
“Yes.”
“The two drivers?”
“Yes.”
“Have the authorities visited you?”
“Yes, but, it was routine,” Cheng assured him. “There were no surprises. They have not mentioned your name to me. But you must not telephone me at the embassy again. Use this number only. My security people ha
ve cleared this line.”
He gave Chetti Singh the number and he wrote it down carefully. “I will let you know about this chap. He is an absolute nuisance,” Chetti Singh went on.
“I hope not for too much longer.” Cheng cradled the receiver and instinctively reached for one of the assembly of ivory netsuke that were arranged on his desk top. It was an exquisite miniature carving of a young girl and an old man.
The beautiful child sat on the old man’s lap staring with a daughter’s adoration into his noble, lined and bearded face. Each tiny detail had been executed three hundred years ago by one of the great artists of the Tokugawa dynasty. The ivory had been polished by the touch of human fingers until it glowed like amber. Only when the group was inverted was it disclosed that beneath their flowing robes the couple were naked and that the old man’s member was buried almost to the hilt between the girl’s thighs.
The humour of it appealed to Cheng. It was one of his favourite pieces from all his vast collection, and he caressed it now between thumb and forefinger like a worry bead. As always, the silken feet of the ivory soothed him and encouraged him to think more clearly. He had been expecting to hear more of Daniel Armstrong, but this had not lessened the shock of Chetti Singh’s message. The Sikh’s questions aroused old doubts and for the thousandth time he went over all the precautions that he had taken.
Chapter 10
After leaving the headquarters camp at Chiwewe he had not noticed the blood on his shoes and clothing until Daniel Armstrong had drawn his attention to it. This evidence of his guilt had preyed on his mind for the rest of that arduous journey out of the Zambezi valley. When at last they reached the main highway and found Chetti Sing waiting at the rendezvous, he had confided his worries to the Sikh and showed him the stains on his clothing.
