Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

Bonny tucked into the caviar with the relish and appetite of a schoolboy at half-term.

  “So what did you think of Boss?” Daniel asked.

  “I think Tug Harrison is one very sexy man. The smell of serious money and power is a stronger aphrodisiac than caviar and champagne.” She grinned at him with sour cream rimming the fine coppery down on her upper lip. “Does that make you jealous? If it doesn’t, it was meant to.”

  “I am devastated. But apart from Harrison’s sex appeal, what did you think of BOSS’s plans for Ubomo?”

  “Mind-boggling!” she enthused through a half-chewed blini. It was an expression that particularly irritated Daniel. “Awesome!” That was even worse. “If only you paid me enough to enable me to buy a block of BOSS shares! Someone is going to make a bagful of corn in Ubomo.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” Daniel smiled to make a joke of it. Yet was this the girl who had conjured up that hauntingly evocative sequence of caribou in the Arctic sunlight? “A bagful of corn? Is that it?”

  For a moment she looked mystified by the question, and then she dismissed it lightheartedly. “Of course. What else is there, lover?” She mopped up the last grains of the Beluga with a scrap of blini pancake. “Do you think that your newly acquired expense account could run to another pot of fish eggs? Not often a poor working girl gets a shot at them.”

  Chapter 19

  Bonny Mahon was nervous. It was an unfamiliar sensation. The skirt and stockings felt just as unfamiliar. She was accustomed to the firmer embrace of denim. However, the occasion was sufficiently unusual to call for a change of her customary attire.

  She had even gone to the extraordinary lengths of visiting a hairdressing salon. Usually she managed or, she grinned at the thought, mismanaged her own hairstyle. She had to admit that the girl at Michael John had done a better job.

  She considered her reflection in one of the gilt-framed antique mirrors opposite where she sat in the lobby of the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. “Not bad,” she admitted. “I could pass for a lady at a hundred paces.” She preened her new curls which were fashionably anointed with gel. It was an uncharacteristic gesture, a symptom of the nervous anticipation with which she regarded the coming meeting.

  The female secretary who had arranged the meeting over the telephone had suggested that the car pick her up at her lodgings. Bonny had shied away from the idea. She didn’t want anybody to see her digs; she was economising and the area of south London where she presently resided was hardly salubrious.

  The Ritz was the first alternative rendezvous that came to mind. It was more the image that she wished to project. Even though his secretary had arranged the date she had high hopes for what would come out of it. “I mean, it just has to be a proposition, doesn’t it?” she reassured herself. There was no doubt about the way he looked at me. “I’ve never been wrong about that before. He’s got a head of steam for me.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. It was exactly seven-thirty. He was the type who would make a point of being punctual, she thought, and when she looked expectantly towards the main doors a page was already coming towards her. She had taken the precaution of tipping the doorman and telling him where to find her. “Your car has arrived, madam,” the page informed her.

  A Rolls-Royce stood at the kerb. It was an iridescent pearly grey and the windows were smoked and opaque, giving the magnificent vehicle a surrealistic appearance. The handsome young chauffeur, who wore a dove-grey uniform and cap with a patent-leather brim, greeted her as she came down the steps.

  “Miss Mahon?”

  “Good evening.”

  He opened the rear passenger door and stood aside for her.

  Bonny settled into the sensual embrace of the soft grey Connally leather. “Good evening, my dear,” Tug Harrison greeted her in that dark-molasses voice that sent a shiver of unease and anticipation up her spine.

  The chauffeur closed the door behind her, and sealed her in a cocoon of wealth and privilege. She inhaled the rich expensive smell of leather and cigar-smoke and some marvelous aftershave, the aroma of power. “Good evening, Sir Peter. It was so good of you to invite me,” she said, and bit her own lip in anger. It sounded wrong, too gushing and subservient. She had planned to be cool and unimpressed by his condescension.

  “Chez Nico,” Tug Harrison told the chauffeur, and then touched the button on the arm-rest that operated the soundproof glass division between the driver and passenger seats. “You don’t mind my cigar, I hope?” he asked Bonny.

  “No. I enjoy the smell of a good cigar. It’s a Davidoff, isn’t it?” It wasn’t a guess. She had noticed the discarded hand tucked into the ashtray. She had an eye for detail; it was the secret of her success as a photographer.

  “Oh!” Tug Harrison acknowledged. “A connoisseur.” He seemed amused.

  She hoped he had not noticed her little cheat, and she changed the subject quickly. “I’ve never been to Chez Nico. Mind you, that’s not surprising. Even if I could get a reservation, I’d never be able to meet the bill. They say you have to book weeks in advance. is that true?”

  “Some people might have to.” Tug Harrison smiled again. “I really don’t know. I’ll ask my secretary; she makes my arrangements.”

  God, it was all going wrong. Every time she said anything, it came out sounding callow and gave him reason to despise her. For the remainder of the short journey she let him do the talking, yet despite her poor start to the evening, Bonny’s imagination was running riot. If only she played her cards correctly from now on, this could be her future, Rolls-Royce barge account at Harrods and Harvey and dinner at Nico’s, a flat in Mayfair or Kensington, holidays in Acapulco and Sydney and Cannes and a sable coat. Pleasures and riches without end. This could be the big casino. “Just cool it, girl.”

  She had spent most of the afternoon tucked up in bed with Danny, but that seemed like a hundred years ago in another half-forgotten land. Now there was Sir Peter Harrison and a new world of promise.

  The restaurant surprised her. She had expected a pompous dimly lit atmosphere, and instead it was gay and the lighting was cheerful. The lovely stained-glass ceiling was in green garden colours and captured a mood of art nouveau. Her own mood expanded and lightened in sympathy.

  As they were ushered to the special table in the elbow of the L-shaped room, the conversation at the other tables faltered and all heads revolved to follow them and then came back close together to whisper his name and barter the latest gossip about him. Tug Harrison was the stuff of legend. It felt good to be at his side and savour the envious glances of other women.

  Bonny knew just how striking were her tall athletic body and her flaming hair. She knew everyone would be jumping to conclusions about her status in Sir Peter’s life. “Please God, just let it come true. I’d better remember to take it easy on the wine. Perrier and a quick wit, those are the watch-words for this evening.”

  It was easier than she expected. Tug Harrison was urbane and attentive. He made her feel pampered and very special by directing all his attention and charm upon her.

  Nico Ladenis came up from his kitchen, especially to speak to Tug Harrison. With his dark satanic good looks Nico had a fearsome reputation. If he served the best food in England, he expected it to be treated with respect. If you ordered a gin and tonic to ruin your palate at the beginning of one of his celestial repasts you had to expect his wrath and contempt. Tug Harrison ordered a chilled La Ina for himself and a Dubonnet for Bonny. Then he and Nico discussed the menu with the same serious attention that Tug would give to BOSS’s quarterly report.

  Then Nico left, sending one of his underlings to take their order.

  Tug turned to Bonny to ask what she had chosen, but she feigned a girlish confusion “Oh, it all sounds so gorgeous that I can’t possibly make up my mind. Won’t you order for me, Sir Peter?” He smiled and she sensed that she was on the right track at last.

  She was getting the feel of the relationship, her intuition working up to cruise speed
. Clearly, he liked to be in charge of any situation, even to choosing the meal.

  She went very gently on the Chevalier-Montracket that he ordered to complement her salmon. She encouraged him to relate the adventures of his young days in Africa. It was not difficult to show intense interest in his conversation, for he was a fine raconteur. His voice was like the caress of velvet gloves, and it didn’t matter that he was old and that his skin was wrinkled and bagged and foxed by the tropical sun. Recently she had read somewhere, perhaps in the Sunday Times Magazine, that his personal fortune was over three hundred million pounds. At that price, what were a few wrinkles and scars?

  “Well, my dear.” At last Tug dabbed his leathery lips with the folded table-napkin. “May I suggest that we take coffee at Holland Park. There are a few small matters that I would like to discuss with you.”

  Modestly she hesitated a moment. Could she afford to make herself too readily available? Shouldn’t she play just a little hard to get? Should she hold out until the second time of asking? But what if there were no second time? She quailed at the thought. “Go for it now, honcychild,” she counselled herself, and smiled at him.

  “Thank you, Sir Peter. I’d love that.” She was awed by the splendour of the Holland Park house. It was hard not to rubberneck like a tourist as he led her up to his study and settled her into a deep leather armchair.

  It was a masculine room with a set of rhinoceros horns on the panelled wall. She noticed the two paintings and shivered as she recognised their value.

  “Are you cold, my dear?” He was solicitous and motioned the black servant in flowing white kanza to close the window. Sir Peter brought the coffee cup to her with his own hands. “Kenya Blue,” he told her. “Specially picked from my private plantation on the slopes of Mount Kenya.”

  He dismissed the servant and lit a cigar. “And now, my dear…” He blew a streamer of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. “Tell me, are you sleeping with Daniel Armstrong?”

  It was so unexpected, so brusque and alarming that she lost her equilibrium. Before she could prevent herself she flared at him, “Just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” He raised a beetling silver eyebrow at her.

  “Ah, a temper to match the colour of your hair, I see. However, that’s a fair question, and I’ll answer straight. I think I am talking to Thelma Smith. That’s the name on your birth certificate, isn’t it? Father unknown. My information is that your mother died in 1975 of an overdose. Heroin, I believe. That was the period when a shipment of had stuff got loose in the city.”

  Bonny felt a cold nauseous sweat break out on her forehead. She stared at him. “Like your mother’s, your own career has been, shall we say, chequered. At the age of fourteen, a juvenile school of correction for shop-lifting and possession of marijuana. Then at eighteen, a nine-months sentence for theft and prostitution. It seems you robbed one of your clients. While in women’s gaol you developed your interest in photography. You served only three months of your sentence. Time off for good behaviour.” He smiled at her. “Please correct me if I have got any of these facts wrong.” Bonny felt herself shrinking down into the huge chair. She still felt sick and cold. She kept silent.

  “You changed your name to the more glamorous version and got your first job in photography with Peterson Television in Canada. Dismissed in May 1981 for stealing and selling video equipment belonging to the company. They declined to press charges. Since then a clean record. Reformed, perhaps, or just getting a little more clever? Whichever is the case, it seems you are not burdened by too many moral qualms and that you’ll do almost anything for money.”

  “You bastard,” she hissed at him. “You’ve been leading me on. I thought…”

  “Yes, you thought that I was lusting after all that decidedly palatable flesh.” He shook his head with regret. “I am an old man, my dear. As the flames burn lower, I find my appetite becomes more refined. With due respect for your obvious charms, I would class you as Beaujolais nouveau, a hearty young wine, tasty but lacking integrity or distinction. The wine for a younger palate, like Danny Armstrong’s perhaps. At my age I prefer something like a Latour or a Margaux, older, smoother and with more class to it.”

  “You old bastard! Now you insult me.”

  “That was not my intention. I merely wanted us to understand each other. I want something other than your body. You want money. We can do a deal. It’s a purely commercial arrangement. Now to return to my original question. Are you sleeping with Daniel Armstrong?”

  “Yes,” she snarled at him. “I’m screwing his arse off.”

  An expressive turn of phrase. I take it that no mawkish sentiments complicate this relationship? That is, not on your side at least?

  “There is only one person I love, and she’s sitting right here in this room.”

  “Total honesty,” he smiled. “Better and better, especially as Danny Armstrong is not the type to treat it so lightly. You have a certain influence and leverage over him, so you and I can do business now. What would you say to twenty-five thousand pounds?” The sum startled Bonny, but she screwed up her courage and followed her intuition. She dismissed the offer scornfully, I’d say “Up yours, mate! I read somewhere that you paid ten times more than that for a horse.”

  “Ah, but she was a thoroughbred filly of impeccable bloodlines. You wouldn’t set yourself in that class, surely?” He held up his hands to forestall her furious response. “Enough my dear; it was just a little joke, a poor one, I agree. Please forgive me. I want us to be business associates, not lovers, nor even friends.”

  “Then before we talk about a price, you’d better explain what I have to do.” Her expression was bright and foxy. He felt the first vestiges of respect for her.

  “It’s very simple really…” And he told her what he wanted.

  Chapter 20

  Daniel had spent every day that week at the Reading Room of the British Museum. This was invariably his practice before leaving on an assignment. In addition to books specifically on Ubomo, he asked the librarian for every publication that she could find on the Congo, the Rift Valley and its lakes, and the African equatorial forest.

  He started with the books of Speke and Burton, Mungo Park and Alan Moorehead, re-reading them for the first time in years. He skipped through them rapidly, merely refreshing his mind on the half-forgotten descriptions of the nineteenth-century explorations of the region. He moved on to the more recent publications. Amongst these he found Kelly Kinnear’s book, The People of the Tall Trees, listed in the bibliography.

  He called for a copy of her book and studied the author’s photograph on the inside of the dust-jacket. She was rather pretty, with a strong and interesting face. The blurb did not give her birth date but it listed her honours and degrees. She was primarily a medical doctor, although she also had a PhD. in Anthropology from Bristol University. When not conducting research in the field, Doctor Kinnear shares a cottage in Cornwall with two dogs and a cat. That was the only personal information that the blurb contained and Daniel returned to the photograph.

  In the background of the photograph was a palisade formed by the trunks of large tropical trees. It seemed as though she stood in a forest clearing. She was bare-headed, dark hair pulled back from her face and twisted into a thick plait that had fallen forward over one shoulder and hung down her chest. She wore a man’s shirt. It was difficult to tell what her figure was like, but she seemed slim and small-breasted. Her neck was long, with clean graceful lines, and her collar-bones formed a sculptured cup at the base of her throat.

  Her head sat well on the column of her neck, strong square jaw and high cheekbones like an American Indian. Her nose was thin and rather bony and her mouth was determined, perhaps obstinate. Her eyes were probably her best feature, wideset and almond-shaped, and she stared coolly at the camera. He judged that she had been in her early thirties when the photograph was taken, but there was no indication as to how old she was now.

  A handful, Daniel decided. No
wonder she has my friend Tug running scared. This is a lady who gets her own way. He flicked through to the first dozen pages of People of the Tall Trees, and read the introduction in which Kelly Kinnear explored the first references to the pygmies in the writings of antiquity.

  This began with the report of the Egyptian leader Harkbuf to his child-Pharaoh Neferkare. Two thousand five hundred years before the birth of Christ, Harkhuf had led an expedition southwards to discover the source of the Nile river. In his field report, discovered four and a half thousand years later in Pharaoh’s tomb, Harkhuf described how he had come to a mighty forest to the west of the Mountains of the Moon, and how in that dark and mysterious place he had encountered a tiny people who danced and sang to their god. Their god was the very forest itself and the description of their dancing and worship was so tantalizing that Pharaoh despatched a messenger ordering Harkhuf to capture some of these tiny god dancers and bring them back to Memphis. Thus the pygmies became familiar figures in ancient Egypt.

  Over the ages since then, many strange legends have grown up around these tiny forest people, and much that is fanciful and apocryphal has been written about them. Even their name was based on a misconception. Tugme was a Greek unit of measurement, from elbow to knuckle, an imaginative estimate of their height by people who had never seen them.

  Daniel had read all this before and he passed quickly to the more enjoyable portion of the book, the author’s description of three years spent living with a pygmy clan in the depths of. the equatorial forests of Ubomo.

  Kinnear was a trained and professional anthropologist with a keenly observant eye for detail and the ability to marshal her meticulously garnered facts and extract from them reasoned conclusions, and yet she possessed the ear and heart of a storyteller. These were not dry scientific subjects she was describing but human beings, each with his own character and idiosyncrasies; here was a warm, loving and lovable people pictured against the awe-inspiring grandeur of the great forest, a merry people, wonderfully in tune with nature, expressing themselves with songs and dances and impish humour.