by Wilbur Smith
Others might applaud what he had done, but for him it was over. His nomadic soul urged him onwards. Already it was time to move, to make for the next horizon, the next tantalizing adventure.
Somebody touched his arm. For a moment he did not respond. Then he turned his head to find a girl beside him. She had red hair. That was the first impression he had of her, thick bushy, flaring red hair. The hand on his arm had a disconcerting, almost masculine, strength. She was tall, almost-as tall as he was, and her features were generous, a wide mouth and full lips, a large nose saved from masculinity by the upturned tip and delicately sculpted nostrils.
“I’ve been trying to get to you all evening,” she said. Her voice was deep with a self-assured timbre. “But you’re the man of the moment.” She was not pretty. Her skin was heavily freckled from sun and wind, but she had a clean outdoors glow. In the terrace lights her eyes were bright and green, fringed with lashes as dense and thick as bronze wire filaments. They gave her a candid and quizzical air. “Eina promised to introduce us, but I’ve given up waiting for it to happen. I’m Bonny Mahon.” She grinned like a tomboy and he liked her.
“Eina gave me a tape of yours.” He offered his hand and she took it in a firm strong grip. All right, he thought, she’s tough, as Eina said she was. Africa won’t daunt her. You’re good. You have an eye and an instinct for the light. You’re very good.”
“So are you.” Her grin widened. “I’d like to work with you some time.”
She was direct, unaffected. He liked her even more. Then he smelt her. She wore no perfume. It was the true undisguised smell of her skin, warm, strong and aphrodisiac.
“It could happen, he told her. It could happen sooner than either of us suspects.” He was still holding her hand and she made no effort to withdraw it. They were both aware of the sexual ambiguity in his last remark. He thought that it would be exciting to take this woman to Africa with him.
Some miles north of where Daniel and Bonny stood on the terrace and appraised each other both professionally and physically, another person had watched the first episode of Africa Dying.
Sir Peter Tug Harrison was the major shareholder and CEO of British Overseas Steam Ship Co. Ltd.
Although BOSS was still listed under Shipping on the London Stock Exchange it had changed its nature entirely in the fifty years since Tug Harrison had acquired a controlling interest in it.
It had started out in the late Victorian era running a small fleet of tramp steamers to Africa and the Orient, but it had never prospered greatly and Tug had taken it over at the outbreak of the Second World War for a fraction of its value. With the profits of its wartime operation Tug had branched out in many directions and BOSS was now one of the most powerful conglomerates listed on the London Stock Exchange.
Tug had always been sensitive to the vagaries of public opinion and to the image that his company projected. He had as strong an instinct for these subtleties as he had for the commodity index and the fluctuations on the world stock markets. It was one of the reasons for his huge success. “The mood is green,” he had told his board only a month ago. “Bright green. Whether or not we agree with this new passion for nature and the environment, we have to take cognisance of it. We have to ride the green wave.”
Now he sat in his study on the third floor of his home in Holland Park. The house stood in the centre of a row of magnificent townhouses. It was one of the most prestigious addresses in London. The study was panelled in African hardwood from BOSS’s concessions in Nigeria. The panels were selected and matched and polished so that they glowed like precious marble. There were only two paintings hanging on the panels, for the wood grain itself was a natural work of art. The painting facing the desk was a Madonna and Child from Paul Gauguin’s first sojourn in the South Pacific islands, and the other painting, which hung behind him, was a Picasso, a great barbaric and erotic image of a bull and a nude woman. The pagan and profane set off the lyrical and luminous quality of the Mother and God-child.
Guarding the doorway was a set of rhinoceros horns. There was a burnished spot on one of the horns, polished by Tug Harrison’s right hand over the decades. He stroked it each time he entered or left the room. It was a superstitious ritual. The horns were his good-luck charms.
As an eighteen-year-old lad, penniless and hungry, owning nothing but an old rifle and a handful of cartridges, he had followed that rhino bull into the shimmering deserts of the Sudan. Thirty miles from the banks of the Nile, he had killed the bull with a single bullet to the brain. Blood from a severed artery in its head had washed a little runnel in the desert earth, and from the bottom of the shallow excavation Tug Harrison had picked out a glassy stone with a waxy sheen that had almost filled the palm of his hand.
That diamond was the beginning. His luck had changed from the day of the rhino. He had kept the horns, and still be reached out to them every time he was within arm’s length of them. To him they were more valuable than either of the fabulous paintings that flanked them.
He had been born in Liverpool’s slums during the First World War, son of a drunken market porter, and had run away to sea at the age of sixteen. He had jumped ship at Dares Salaam to escape the sexual attentions of a brutal first mate, and had discovered the mystery and the beauty and promise that was Africa. For Tug Harrison that promise had been fulfilled. The riches that he had wrested from the harsh African soil had made him one of the hundred richest men in the entire world.
The television set was artistically concealed behind the hardwood panelling. The controls were set into the intercom panel on his desk-top. Like most intelligent and busy men, he shunned the mindless outpourings of the television programmes, limiting his viewing to selected programmes, mostly the news and current affairs items.
However, anything African was his vital interest and he had noted the title Africa Dying and punched the programme time into his desk-top alarm. The discreet electronic chimes aroused him from his study of the financial statements which lay on the pigskin blotter in front of him. He touched the controls, and the panel in the wall directly across the figured-silk Quin carpet from his desk slid open. He adjusted the volume of sound as the theme music floated into the room.
Then the image of a great elephant and a snowy peak filled the screen, and instantly he was transported back fifty years and thousands of miles in time and space. He watched without moving until the final frame faded. Then he reached out to touch the controls. The screen went black and the silent panel closed like a sleepy eyelid.
Tug Harrison sat for a long time in silence. At last he picked up the eighteen-carat gold pen from the desk set and scribbled a name on his note-pad. Daniel Armstrong. Then he swivelled his chair and took down his copy of Who’s Who from the bookshelf.
Daniel walked from Shepherd’s Bush to Holland Park. just because he was a potential millionaire didn’t mean he should toss away a fiver on a few minutes taxi ride. The weather was bright and warm and the trees in the squares and parks were decked in early summer greenery. As he strode along, glancing with abstract appreciation at the girls in their thin dresses and short skirts, he was thinking about Tug Harrison. Ever since Eina Markham had phoned him to pass on Harrison’s invitation, he had been intrigued. Of course, he knew of the man. Harrison’s tentacles reached into every corner of the African continent, from Egypt to the banks of the Limpopo river.
Daniel knew the power and wealth of BOSS and its influence in Africa but little about the man behind it. Tug Harrison was a man who seemed to have a knack for steering well clear of public controversy and the attentions of the tabloid press. Wherever Daniel travelled in Africa these days he could discern Tug Harrison’s influence, like the Spoor of a cunning old man-eating lion. He left his tracks, but like the beast he was seldom seen in the flesh.
Daniel pondered the reasons for Harrison’s peculiar success on the African continent. He understood the African mind as few white men could. He had learned as a lad in the lonely hunting and prospecting camps i
n the remote wilderness, when his only companions for months on end had been black men. He spoke a dozen African languages but, more important, he understood the oblique and lateral reasoning of the African. He liked Africans, felt comfortable in their company, and knew how to inspire their trust. On his African travels Daniel had met men and women of mixed blood whose mothers were Turkana or Shana or Kikuyu, and who boasted that Tug Harrison was their true father. There was never any proof of their claims, of course, but often these people were in positions of influence and affluence.
There were very seldom news reports or photographs of Harrison’s visits to the African continent, but his Gulfstream executive jet was often parked discreetly at the furthest end of the airport tarmac in Lusaka or Kinshasa or Nairobi.
Rumour placed him as an honoured guest and confidant in Mobutu’s marble palaces or at Kenneth Kaunda’s presidential residence in Lusaka.
They said that he was one of the very few who had access to the shadowy Renamo guerrillas in Mozambique as well as to the guerrilla bush camps of Savimbi in Angola. He was also welcomed by the legitimate regimes that they opposed. They said that he could pick up the telephone at any hour of the day or night and within minutes be speaking to de Klerk or Mugabe or Daniel Arap Moi.
He was the broker, the courier, the adviser, the banker, the go-between, and the negotiator for the continent.
Daniel was looking forward to meeting him. He had tried many times before, without success. Now as an invited guest he stood outside the imposing front door and felt a little tickle of nerves. That premonition had served him well in the African bush; it had warned him so often of dangerous beasts and even more dangerous men.
A black servant in flowing white kanza and red fez opened the front door. When Daniel spoke to him in fluent Swahili, the wooden mask of his face cracked into a huge white smile.
He led Daniel up the wide marble staircase. There were fresh flowers in the niches of the landings, and Daniel recognised some of the paintings from Harrison’s fabled art collection gracing the walls, Sisley, Duly and Matisse. Before the tall double doors of red Rhodesian teak, the servant stood aside and bowed. Daniel strode into the room and paused in the centre of the silk Quin carpet.
Tug Harrison rose from behind his desk. It was at once obvious how he had earned his nickname. He was big-boned but compact, although the exquisitely tailored pin-stripe suit smoothed the raw powerful angles of his frame and the heavy jut of his belly.
He was bald, except for a fringe of silver hair like that of a tonsured monk. His pate was pale and smooth while the skin of his face was thickened and creased and tanned where it had been unprotected by a hat from the tropical sun. His jaw was determined and his eyes were sharp and piercing, giving warning of the ruthless intelligence behind them.
“Armstrong,” he said. “Good of you to come.” His voice was warm as molasses, too soft for the rest of him. He held out his hand across the desk, forcing Daniel to come to him, a subtle little dominance ploy.
“Good of you to ask me, Harrison.” Daniel took his cue and eschewed the use of his title, setting equal terms. The older man’s eyes crinkled in acknowledgement.
They shook hands, examining each other, feeling the physical power of each other’s grip without letting it develop into a boyish contest of strength. Harrison waved him to the buttoned leather chair beneath the Gauguin and spoke to the servant. “Letta chai, Selibi. You will take tea, won’t you, Armstrong?”
While the servant poured the tea, Daniel glanced at the rhino horns on the entrance wall. “You don’t see trophies like that often,” he said, and Harrison left his desk and crossed to the doorway.
He stroked one of the horns, caressing it as though it were the limb of a beautiful and beloved woman. “No, you don’t, he agreed. I was a boy when I shot them. Followed the old bull for fifteen days. It was November and the temperature at midday was 120 degrees in the shade. Fifteen days, two hundred miles through the desert.” He shook his head. “The crazy things we do when we are young.”
“The crazy things we do when we are older,” Daniel said, and Harrison chuckled.
“You are right. Life is no fun unless you are at least a touch crazy.” He took the cup that the servant offered him. “Thank you, Selibi. Close the doors when you leave.” The servant drew the double doors closed and Harrison went back to his desk. “I watched your production on Channel 4 the other night,” he said, and Daniel inclined his head and waited.
Harrison sipped his tea. The delicate porcelain cup looked fragile in his hands. They were battler’s hands, scarred and ravaged by tropical sun and hard physical labour and ancient conflicts. The knuckles were enlarged but the nails were carefully manicured.
Harrison put the cup and saucer down on the desk in front of him and looked up at Daniel again. “You got it right,” he said. “You got it exactly right.” Daniel made no comment. He sensed that any modest or deprecating comment would only irritate this man. “You got your facts straight, and you drew the right conclusions. It was a refreshing change after all the sentimental and ill-informed crap that we hear every day. You put your finger on the roots of Africa’s problems, tribalism and overpopulation and ignorance and corruption. The solutions you suggested made sense.” Harrison nodded. “Yes, you got it right.” He stared at Daniel thoughtfully. Harrison’s faded blue eyes gave him a strangely enigmatic expression, like a blind man.
“Don’t relax,” Daniel warned himself. “Not for a moment. Don’t let the flattery soften you up. This is what it’s all about. He’s stalking you like an old lion.”
“Someone in your position is able to influence public opinion as others are never able to do,” Harrison murmured. “You have a reputation, an international audience. People trust your vision. “They base their view on what you tell them. That’s good.” He nodded even more emphatically. “That’s very good. I would like to help and encourage you.”
“Thank you.” Daniel let a small ironical smile lift one side of his mouth. One thing he was certain of: Tug Harrison did nothing without good reason. He made no free gifts of his help and encouragement. “What do they call you, your friends? Daniel, Dan, Danny?”
“Danny.”
“My friends call me Tug. Our thinking is so much in accord. We share the same commitment to Africa. I think we should be friends, Danny.”
“All right, Tug.”
Harrison smiled. “You have every reason to be suspicious I understand. I have a certain reputation. One should not always judge a man on his reputation, however.”
“That is true.” Daniel smiled back at him. “Now tell me what you want from me.”
“Damn it!” Harrison chuckled. “I like you. I think we understand each other. We both believe that man has a right to exist upon this planet, and that, as the dominant animal species, he has the right to exploit the earth for his own benefit, just as long as he does so on a basis of sustained and renewable yield.”
“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “I believe that. It is the balanced, pragmatic view.”
“I would expect no less of a man of your intelligence. In Europe man has been farming the earth, felling the forests and killing the animals for centuries, and yet the earth is more fertile, the forests denser, the animals more numerous than they were a thousand years ago.”
“Except downwind of Chernobyl, or where the acid rain falls,” Daniel pointed out. “But yes, I agree; Europe isn’t in bad shape.”
“Africa is another story.” Harrison cut in, “You and I love Africa. I feel that it is our duty to combat its evils. I can do something to alleviate the grinding poverty in some parts of the continent, and by investment and guidance offer some of the African people a better way of life. You, with your special gifts, are in a position to counter much of the ignorance that exists about Africa. You can clear the woolly-headed confusion of the armchair-conservationists and urban animal rights fanatics, those who are so cut off from the earth and the forests and the animals that they are actuall
y menacing the elements of nature which they believe they are protecting.”
Daniel nodded thoughtfully and noncommittally. It was weak tactics to disagree with the man until he had listened to everything he had to say, and heard the full proposal that Harrison was obviously working towards. “In principle all you say makes excellent sense. However, if you could be a little more specific, Tug.”
“Right,” Harrison agreed. “Of course you know the state of Ubomo, don’t you?”
Daniel felt a little electric shock tickle the hair at the back of his neck. It was so unexpected and yet, in some bizarre manner, he felt that it was predestined. Something had been leading him inexorably in that direction. It took him a moment to recover himself, then he said, “Ubomo, the land of the red earth. Yes, I have been there, though I can’t claim to be an expert on the country. Since independence from Britain in the sixties, it has been a little backwater.”
Harrison shrugged. “There wasn’t much to know about it. It was the fief of an arrogant old dictator who resisted all change and progress.”
“Victor Omeru,” Daniel said. “I met him once, but it was years ago, when he was bickering with his neighbours about the fishing rights in the lake.”
“That was typical of the man. He resisted all change on principle. He wanted to keep to the traditional ways and customs. He wanted to keep his people docile and compliant.” Harrison shook his head. “Anyway, that is all history. Omeru has gone and there is a dynamic young man at the head of government. President Ephrem Taffari is there to open up the country and bring his people into the twentieth century. Apart from the fishing rights, Ubomo has considerable natural assets. Timber and minerals. For twenty years I have tried to convince Omeru that these should be developed for the benefit of his people. He has resisted with a blind intransigence.”
“Yes. He was stubborn,” Daniel agreed. “But I liked him.”
“Oh, yes, he was a lovable old codger,” Harrison agreed. “But that is no longer relevant. The country is ripe and ready for development and, on behalf of an international consortium of which BOSS is the leading member, I have negotiated the concession to undertake a major part of this development.”
