by Wilbur Smith
According to Senoussi’s later account to his master, the bull ran off only a hundred yards before collapsing. He was an extremely old elephant with his fourth and last molars almost worn away, on the verge of the slow starvation of great age.
Although not particularly big-bodied, his neck and forequarters were overdeveloped to carry that great weight of ivory. Senoussi observed the bull had been forced to raise his head and lift the tips of his tusks free of the earth before he could move.
When Shundi displayed the tusks in the ivory market in Zanzibar they caused a sensation amongst traders accustomed to dealing with massive tusks. The Sultan had purchased the pair from Shundi for a thousand pounds sterling, which was a huge sum of money in those days. Tug had first seen them in the palace of the Sultan’s successors overlooking the Zanzibar waterfront.
Now he approached them with awe and stroked one of them, staring up at the massive ivory arches that almost met high above his head. This was legendary treasure. To Tug, somehow, these tusks seemed to embody the history and the soul of the entire African continent.
“Now let me show you the rest of my poor little collection,” Ning Heng H’Sui suggested at last, and led the way past the towering ivory columns to the archway artfully concealed in the rear wall of the antechamber.
The interior of the building was a labyrinth of dimly lit passages. The floor was carpeted with midnight-blue Wilton, soft and soundless to the tread. The walls were the same colour, but set flush into them on each side of the passage were the showcases. The proportions of each case were designed to the shape and size of the single exhibit it contained. The lighting of the cases was dramatically arranged so that each treasure was revealed in crisp detail and seemed to float airily and independently of the dim surroundings.
Firstly, there were religious and sacred objects, a Bible with covers of carved ivory and precious stones bearing the doubleheaded eagle of Imperial Russia. “Peter the Great,” Heng murmured. His personal Bible.
There was a copy of the Torah, the yellow parchment rolled on to an ivory distaff contained within an ivory case with the Star of David carved upon it. “Salvaged from the great synagogue at Constantinople when it was destroyed by the Byzantine emperor Theodosius,” Heng explained.
Amongst other treasures there were icons of ivory set with diamonds and Hindu statuettes of Vishnu, a copy of the Koran covered with beaten gold and ivory, and ancient Christian statues of the Virgin and the saints, all carved from ivory.
Then, as they moved along the dim passageway, the nature of the exhibits became more profane, and secular. There were women’s fans and combs and necklaces from ancient Rome and Greece, then an extraordinary object shaped like a two-foot rolling pin with a rooster head carved at one end.
Tug did not recognize it and Heng explained expressionlessly. “It belonged to Catherine the Great of Russia. Her physicians convinced her that ivory was a sovereign specific against syphilis. It is an ivory dildo, made to her own design.”
Occasionally Heng instructed his son to open one or two of the cases so that Tug could handle the exhibits and examine them more closely. “The true joy of ivory lies in the feel of it in the hand,” Heng suggested. “It is as sensuous as the skin of a lovely woman. See the grain, Sir Peter, that lovely subtle cross-hatching that no synthetic substance can duplicate.”
There was one object the size and shape of a football, carved like lacework. Within it were eight more balls, free and complete, one within the other like the layers of an onion. The artist had carved the inner balls through the minute apertures in the outer layers. In the centre of the ball was a carving of a rose bud, perfect in every detail. Three thousand hours of work.
“Five years from the life of a master craftsman. How can you place a value on that?” Cheng asked.
Two hours after entering the museum they came at last to the room that contained the netsukes. During the Tokugawa Shogunate in Japan, only the aristocracy were allowed to wear personal adornment. Amongst the newly emerging and affluent middle class the netsuke button, worn on the sash and used to secure a pill box or tobacco pouch, was an essential article of dress. The beauty and intricacy of the carving enhanced the owner’s prestige.
Heng had assembled a collection of over ten thousand pieces. However, as he explained to Tug, he could only display a few of his favourites, and amongst them were his own creations. These were cased separately, and once again Tug was invited to take them in his hand and to admire the craftsmanship.
“Of course, I was obliged to seek out and buy back my own work.” Heng smiled and tugged at the tassel of hair that hung from his cheek. “I have agents around the world still searching; for my creations. I estimate there are at least a hundred that have so far eluded me. Ten thousand dollars if you find one, Sir Peter,” he promised.
“And worth every cent,” Tug agreed as he examined one of the tiny ivory buds. The detail and rendition was extraordinary and the subject matter covered a wide range of humanity and the animal world, from birds and mammals to men and beautiful women and children in every possible pose and indulging in every activity, from war to love, from death to childbirth.
Somehow, Heng the artist had managed to transform even the mundane into something remarkable and exciting. Subjects that might have been merely pornographic and coarse were instead spiritual, ethereal and moving.
“You have a rare gift,” Tug acknowledged. “The heart and eye of a great artist.”
For a short while the two men were in accord, and then they left the treasure house and returned to the main house where servants had set out writing materials and light refreshments at a long lacquer-work table. They removed their footwear and settled themselves on cushions about the table and, at last, the real work began.
In London, Tug had negotiated and signed a document of intent with the elder Ning sons. This was subject to ratification by the patriarch. Tug had never expected this to be a simple procedure and he was not to be disappointed.
A little after midnight they adjourned and Tug was escorted back to the guesthouse by Cheng. The two female servants were waiting for him with tea and refreshments. They helped him change into his night clothes, then drew back the quilts on the low wide bed and waited expectantly.
Tug dismissed them and they left at once. He had not been able to discover where the video camera and microphone were concealed, but he was certain they were there. He switched off the light and lay for a while, well pleased with the progress he had made. Then he slept soundly and awoke eager for the fray.
In the middle of the following afternoon, Tug and Heng H’Sui shook hands.
From all that Tug had learned about the old man, he believed that like himself Heng was a man of peculiar integrity. Between them that handshake was as good as any formal document. Of course, the lawyers on both sides would now come in and complicate and muddy the issues, but even they could never weaken the central pillars of the agreement.
Between Tug and Heng it was sacrosanct, the honour of buccaneers.
“There is one other matter I would like to discuss with you,” Heng murmured, and Tug frowned. “No, no, Sir Peter. It is a personal matter, not part of our agreement.” And Tug relaxed.
“I will do what I can to help you. What is it about?”
“Elephant,” Heng said. “Ivory.”
“Ah.” Tug smiled and nodded. “Why didn’t I guess?”
“At the time that bloodthirsty madman Idi Amin took over Uganda, the largest elephant still alive on the African continent were in the Uganda National Park near the Murchison Falls at the headwaters of the Nile,” Heng explained.
“Yes,” Tug agreed. I saw a dozen animals in that Park that had tusks over a hundred pounds a side. “They were wiped out by Idi Amin’s henchmen and the ivory stolen by him.”
“Not all of them, Sir Peter. I have it on good authority that some of those animals, the largest of them, escaped annihilation. They crossed the border into Ubomo and reached the rain fore
sts on the slopes of the Mountains of the Moon, that area which now forms part of our syndicate’s concession.
“It is possible,” Tug conceded.
“It is more than that. It is fact,” Heng contradicted him. “My son Cheng,” he indicated the man at his side, “has a reliable agent in Ubomo. An Indian who has cooperated with us on many occasions. His name is Chetti Singh. Do you know him?”
“I have heard of him, vaguely.” Tug frowned again. “Let me think … Yes, he is connected with the illegal export of ivory and rhino horn. I have heard he is the mastermind behind all African poaching.”
“Chetti Singh has been in the forests of the Ubomo basin within the last ten days,” Heng went on. “He has seen with his own eyes an elephant bull with tusks almost as large as those I showed you today.”
“How can I help you?” Tug insisted.
“I want those tusks,” Heng murmured, the passion of the collector barely concealed behind the time-eroded mask of his face. “More than the ore and the hardwoods of the forest, I want that ivory.”
“President Taffari can sign a special Protected Game licence. I believe there is provision for that in the constitution. If there isn’t, it can be changed. I presume that your man Chetti Singh will be able to arrange for the ivory to be harvested. He is the master poacher. If that is the case, I will send my Gulfstream to Ubomo to pick up the tusks and ferry them to you here. I can foresee no problems, Mr. Ning.”
“Thank you, Sir Peter,” Heng smiled. “Is there anything I can do for you in exchange?”
“Yes.” Tug leaned forward. “As a matter of fact there is.”
“You only have to ask,” Heng invited.
“Before I do that, I must explain something of the new hysteria that is sweeping the Western world. Fortunately for you, you are not subject to the same pressures. There is a new thinking, especially amongst the young but also, regrettably, amongst those who should know better. This philosophy is that we have no right to utilise the natural assets of our planet. We cannot be allowed to mine the earth of its bounty, because our excavations will disfigure the beauty of nature. We cannot be allowed to cut the trees for timber, because they belong not to us but to posterity. We cannot be allowed to kill a living creature for its meat or fur or ivory, because all life is somehow sacred.”
“This is nonsense.” Heng dismissed it with a brusque gesture, his dark eyes sparkling. “Man is what he is today because he has always done these things.” He touched the cedar panels of the wall beside him, the hem of his silk tunic, the gold and ivory ring on his finger, the precious ceramic bowl on the table before him. “All these were mined or felled or killed, as is the very food we eat.”
“You and I, we know that,” Tug agreed. “But this new madness is a force to be reckoned with, almost an unreasoning religious fanaticism. A jihad, if you like, a holy war.”
“I mean no disrespect, Sir Peter, but the Occidental is emotionally immature. I like to think that we of the cast have more sophistication. We are not so readily caught up by such exaggerated behaviour.”
“That is why I appeal to you, sir. My company, BOSS, has recently become a victim of this campaign. The attention of the British public has been drawn to our operations in Ubomo by groups of these people who call themselves childish names such as ‘Greenpeace’ or ‘The Friends of the Earth’.” Heng grimaced at the title, and Tug nodded. “I know it sounds silly and harmless, but one such Organisation is led by a fanatical young woman. She has chosen my company as her target. She has already managed to do us some damage. There is a small but noticeable decline in sales and income that is directly attributable to her campaign. Some of our major markets in the United Kingdom and the United States are getting nervous, and asking us to back off from Ubomo or at least to play down our involvement, and I personally have received hate mail and death threats.”
“You do not take those seriously?”
“No, Mr. Ning, I do not, although these are from people who blow up animal experimentation laboratories and set fire to furrier’s shops. However, I think it might be prudent to play down BOSS’s role in Ubomo, or at least to give it better public relations.”
“What do you propose, Sir Peter?”
“Firstly, I have already hired an independent film-producer, quite well-known in Europe and America, to film a television feature on Ubomo with particular emphasis on the benefits to the country of our involvement.”
“You do not plan to expose all the syndicate’s operations to the camera, Sir Peter?” There was a tone of alarm in Heng’s question.
“Of course not, Mr. Ning. The film-producer will be carefully guided to show our syndicate in the best possible light.”
“It may even be necessary to prepare some exhibits for him to film. To put on a little show for his benefit?” Heng suggested.
“Exactly, Mr. Ning. We will keep him away from the sensitive areas of our operations.”
Heng nodded. “That is wise. You seem to have arranged matters without my help.”
“You are in a better position than I am, Mr. Ning. These so called green people cannot reach you here in Taiwan. Your own Chinese people are too pragmatic to take up such an immature attitude to mining and forestry, especially as nearly all the products that we reap will be shipped here. You are invulnerable to this childish but dangerous influence.”
“Yes.” Heng nodded. “I see that all you have said makes good sense, but where does it lead us?”
“I want Lucky Dragon to become the figurehead of the syndicate. I want one of your best men, rather than one of mine, to go to Ubomo and take charge of the operations there. I will pull out my geologists and forestry experts and architects; you will put in Chinese experts. I will gradually sell off my share of the syndicate to Hong Kong front companies and other oriental nominees.
“Although you and I will meet regularly and discreetly to direct the syndicate operations, BOSS will gradually withdraw from the scene.”
“You will become the invisible man, Sir Peter.” Heng chuckled with genuine amusement.
“The invisible man, I like that.” Tug laughed with him. “May I know who it is that you would send to Ubomo to take charge there.”
Ning Heng H’Sui stopped laughing and tugged thoughtfully at the silver tuft that hung from his cheek. His sons, sitting below him at the long lacquer table, leaned forward, trying not to display their eagerness, watching their father’s face with impassive expressions that were betrayed by their eyes.
“Ha!” Heng coughed and wet his lips from the tea bowl. “That will require some consideration, Sir Peter. Will you give me a week or so to decide?”
“Of course, Mr. Ning. It is not a decision to be taken lightly. We will need somebody clever and dedicated and…” he hesitated as he weighed the adjective, discarding ruthless as too explicit, and strong, “yet diplomatic.”
“I will telephone you with my decision. Where will you be, Sir Peter?”
“Well, I am flying to Sydney tomorrow morning, and from there I will go on directly to Nairobi and Kahali in Ubomo to meet President Taffari. However, my aircraft has direct satellite communication. You can contact me in flight as easily as if I were in the next room.
“These modern miracles.” Heng shook his head. “Sometimes it is difficult for an old man to adjust.
“It seems to me that you are old only in experience and sagacity, Mr. Ning. In courage and dash you are young, sir.” Tug said, not entirely in flattery, and Ning Heng H’Sui inclined his head graciously.
Chapter 26
Cheng had waited patiently for exactly the right moment to present his father with the gift that he had brought for him from Africa. It was almost two weeks since Sir Peter Harrison had visited Taiwan and still his father had made no announcement within the family as to which of his sons he was sending to run the syndicate’s operation in Ubomo.
All the brothers knew it must be one of them. They had known it the moment that the Englishman had made the request. Ch
eng had noticed the others lean forward at the words, and he had seen his own excitement and expectation mirrored in their eyes. Ever since then, the brothers had been walking around each other like dogs with stiff legs. The extent of Lucky Dragon’s investment in the Ubomo syndicate was unprecedented. When the project was fully financed and developed, the family would be committed to raising almost a thousand million dollars, much of it borrowed from banks in Hong Kong and Japan.
It must be one of the sons. Ning Heng H’Sui would never put so much trust in an outsider. Only his age forced him to delegate the task to one of them. Not long ago he would have taken command in Ubomo into his own hands, but now his sons knew he had to give it to one of them, and each of them would kill for the honour. That command would be the ultimate accolade which would show clearly whom Heng had chosen as his heir.
Cheng longed for the honour with a passion so intense that it denied him sleep and spoiled his appetite. In the two weeks since Sir Peter’s visit, Cheng had lost weight and become pale and hollow-cheeked. Now, when he exercised in the gymnasium with his hired sparring partners, his body was lean to the point of emaciation. Every rib showed through the hard rubbery casing of muscle. However, his blows and kicks had lost none of their fury. As he fought, his dark eyes, sunken into bruisedlooking cavities, glittered with a feverish intensity.
He found every excuse to be in his father’s company. Even when the old man was painting, or meditating with the Confucian priests at the shrine in the gardens of the estate, or cataloguing his ivory collection, Cheng; tried to be with him, keeping himself close. Yet he sensed that the moment was not exactly right to make the gift. He believed that his father’s choice must in the end come down to that between his second brother, Wu, and Cheng himself.
