The Clouds Beneath the Sun (17 page)

Silence around the table.

“So we tell Russell to go ahead?” Eleanor looked from one to the other.

No one said anything.

“Then we are agreed.” She took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. “Now, Natalie’s shelter. Has everyone read her paper? Any comments?”

“I think the tone is a little too bullish,” said Kees. “Take the title, for instance. ‘An Ancient Shelter in the Kihara Gorge’ is too—well, it assumes too much, it begs all sorts of questions. And it will antagonize potential critics.”

“What would you prefer instead?” said Eleanor.

“Something with a question mark in the title, or something bland, like … oh, I don’t know, ‘A Provocative Arrangement of Stones in the Kihara Gorge.’ Or, instead of ‘provocative,’ maybe ‘intriguing.’ Something like that.”

“Natalie?” Eleanor looked across the table and smiled.

Natalie shrugged. “I don’t mind. If Kees is happier with his title, I’ll go along with it.”

Christopher nodded. “I agree with Kees.”

“Well, I don’t!” interjected Jack.

Christopher reddened and looked briefly at Natalie.

“I’d fall asleep before I read to the end of Kees’s title.” Jack hunched forward. “Look, by all means have a question mark to get yourselves off the hook, but Natalie has pushed our investigation into a totally new area and titles are there to catch people’s attention, to show them we are breaking new ground.” He doodled with a pen on the paper in front of him. “How about… something like … ‘The Origins of Architecture?’—with a question mark, of course.”

“No! No!” chorused several people at the same time.

“Too sensationalist,” cried Kees.

“Too glib,” said Christopher.

Now it was Jack’s turn to fix his brother with a glare. “There you are—it got you all going. That’s my point, that’s what a title should do.”

“In journalism, maybe,” said Eleanor, shaking her head. “I’m with Christopher and Kees on this one, Jack.” She turned to the others. “But surely we can think of something that will keep Jack awake
and
not be sensationalist.”

Silence around the table. Several of them were scribbling draft titles on sheets of paper, then crossing them out.

“Try this,” said Arnold Pryce at length. “‘Ancient Man’s First Building?’, with a question mark.”

“Strictly speaking, you don’t need the word ‘ancient,’ and whatever it is, it’s not a building,” said Natalie.

“‘Man’s first structure?’ then. How about that?” Pryce looked around the table.

Eleanor glanced at Jack. “Would that keep you awake?”

“If it’s a structure, it’s a building. It’s better than ‘A Provocative Arrangement of …’ whatever.”

“Christopher?” Eleanor leaned towards him.

“I still think we risk being accused of reading too much into the evidence.”

“Kees?”

“Well, it’s either a structure or it isn’t. I think Arnold’s title is justified so long as it has a question mark.”

“And so do I,” said Eleanor. “Let’s agree on that.” She looked around the table again, from person to person. No one spoke.

Christopher looked angry, Natalie thought.

“Kees, how are you getting on with your obsidian analysis?”

“I need more time. I’ve narrowed the source down to Rongai or Kebrigo, but the pieces of glass I broke off to use are too small for the tests to distinguish. I did that so as not to destroy the original discoveries. But I definitely need large pieces, so I’ll have to cut them again. It will take me a few days more.”

“Don’t worry. Better to get it right than to hurry and make mistakes.”

“Either way, though,” said Kees, “either way, these sites are a good hundred miles from the gorge. Early man was trading far and wide.”

Eleanor nodded. “So we keep a lookout for what early man might have been trading
with.”

She looked about her. “I think that’s all. Well, except … except you should know that I have asked again for a meeting with the Maasai elders, to dicuss the whole Ndekei business, but they still say the times are not propitious. Jack, can’t you help out here?” She fixed him with a look.

“I’m an honorary Maasai, Mother, not an elder.”

“But they’ll listen to you. You helped them once.”

“And being even an honorary Maasai means I have to behave with
their
interests in mind, not anyone else’s. They’re not fools. They know what you want to see them about, what you will try to achieve, and the more you ask, the louder their denials will be, because that makes their position all the stronger.”

“So what do you suggest, if anything?” Christopher got in before his mother could.

Jack shook his head. “I have one thought, but it’s half formed. There are one or two people I need to see when Natalie and I are in Nairobi. Let’s get through that, and then we’ll see.” He smiled at Natalie.

“Make sure you bring her back in one piece,” said Christopher.

5
THE JUDGE

B
elching exhaust fumes from buses and lorries filled the street with acrid soot. Rust-red dust from the roads caked the windows of the vehicles, grouted the faces of the pavement traders. The smell of burning corn, cattle dung, and coffee filled the morning air. Shouting on all sides. Horns honked, a loudspeaker broadcast a call to prayer, radios played in the open air. Sharp sunshine that hurt the eyes broke into splinters of light on the chrome-work of cars. Downtown Nairobi.

The flight up from the gorge had been as enjoyable as Jack had promised. He seemed to Natalie an accomplished pilot, who had been thorough in his preflight routine before they took off, checking the wings, the wheels, the fuel, all the gauges on the aircraft dashboard, concentrating hard. She felt safe. The small Comanche had flown low, at barely two thousand feet, and Natalie had looked down on herds of elephants, a long line of wildebeest, a score of hippos lurking in a sand-colored river, coffee groves, open-cast mines, villages galore. The tiny plane had landed on the huge main runway of Nairobi airport, Jack and Natalie listening in to the radio conversations between other pilots and air traffic control. After using a ridiculously tiny amount of airstrip, the Comanche had turned off, into the private terminal of Nairobi International.

Jack left his plane near a couple of private jets. “I park here so I can get a good look at them,” he said to Natalie, grinning. “You never know, maybe one day.”

They were now in a taxi, a battered black Peugeot with green writing on the bodywork. There was no air-conditioning and the rear window on Natalie’s side had broken halfway down and refused to budge. There was a smell of diesel in the car, as if the carburetor was leaking, or something was leaking. Their exhaust billowed out as black as everyone else’s.

“The courthouse is just along here,” said Jack, sensing her discomfort. “Not far.”

The traffic was inching along, the street jammed with cars and buses and lorries and little three-wheelers carrying light goods. People walked their bicyles along the pavements, ringing the bells to warn pedestrians of the change in the rules.

This was a street of shops. Hardware shops with bright silver-looking galvanized buckets and enamel washbasins hanging outside, white string-headed mops and bright saffron-colored sponges, wooden stools and ginger-tinted coconut mats. There were chemist shops with green crosses above their doors and windows lined in yellow cellophane against the sun. There were shoe shops with plimsolls hung in bunches, like white bananas, uniform shops with nurses’ outfits, gray and white, in the window, khaki shirts, Sam Brown belts, and long socks. Diffident Indian shopkeepers, in chocolate-colored overalls, watched the world go by.

“See, there’s the square ahead, the courthouse is set back.” Jack pointed past some thin trees in the middle of the expanse, to where an elegant neoclassical white mansion was coming into view. “It’ll be cooler in there.”

The road opened out into the square, but it made no difference to the speed of the traffic. Now the vehicles were choked seven abreast rather than four. Natalie noticed a dead fountain among the straggly trees, where some emaciated dogs were sniffing each other and playing. Old men were sleeping on the dried mud—the grass had obviously given up long ago. A white police box, for directing traffic, was directly ahead, raised on a dais. It was abandoned.

Outside the courthouse was a tall flagpole, supporting two flags, the Union Jack and, beneath it, the black, red, and green flag that, come independence, would represent Kenya. The taxi dropped them, they grabbed their overnight bags from the boot, and Jack paid the driver.

Inside, as he had said, it was cooler. It was also very busy. People clustered in knots, one or more of their number nervously awaiting cases to begin. Tall black policemen in white pith helmets contrasted with the occasional white barristers, incongruous in short wigs and black gowns. Jack scrutinized a directory on a wall.

“Room 208,” he murmured. “Follow me.”

He led the way up a wide staircase of polished wood, which doubled back on itself, leading to the top floor. Turning right, Jack found 208, knocked, and went through. A tall, good-looking man with iron gray hair, wearing a waistcoat, white court tabs at his throat but no jacket, stood behind a massive mahogany desk. The office was a huge, light, airy room with three broad windows that gave on to the square. A portrait of the young queen hung above the desk.

“Jack,” the man boomed. “How
are
you? How’s Eleanor and that lovely sister of yours?” He came round the desk and shook hands with Jack, not letting go of his hand.

“Max, you’re looking well,” said Jack. “My mother sends her love. Beth would probably have some fighting talk for you if I’d spoken to her lately but I haven’t. She’s still in Boston, finishing her Ph.D.” He half turned. “Sir Maxwell Sandys, this is Natalie Nelson. Natalie, this is Max, deputy attorney general and the man who taught me to fly.”

Outside in the square Natalie could hear a band playing. Military music, if she wasn’t mistaken. Some political event or other? She’d been so obsessed recently by her discoveries in the gorge, and so removed from civilization, at least in its modern manifestation, that she had hardly kept up with the country’s countdown to independence.

Sandys stepped forward and took Natalie’s hand. His skin was very soft.

“So you are our star witness, eh?” He had cornflower blue eyes, unblinking. “No one told me you were so beautiful, Dr. Nelson. No wonder Jack keeps you hidden away in that bloody gorge of his.” He showed her to a seat. “How are you settling in?”

Sandys’s cologne wafted over her. How much did he put on?

“Apart from the reason I’m here in this office, Sir Maxwell, I’d say my time in Kihara has been spectacularly wonderful. Jack and Eleanor don’t keep me hidden. All the wild animals in the Serengeti couldn’t drag me away.”

He let go of her hand. “Splendid. You’re a Cambridge graduate, right? Me too. Corpus Christi. Which college were you at?”

“Jesus.” Natalie hated this sort of Little England conversation.

Sandys took out the watch in his waistcoat. “How do you think the Colonial Secretary’s visit went?”

“I think he got what he came for,” said Jack. “He saw enough trouble to realize independence has to come sooner rather than later, and that KANU have far more support—and far more
impressive
support—than KADU. They can create real trouble if they don’t get their way. That helps him know who to invite to the independence conference in London in February. Do you see it any differently?”

Sandys shook his head. “Not really. There’ll be major land reform, of course, and the white farmers are not going to like it. But the white-collar people—the lawyers, doctors, and teachers—will still look to Britain; that influence will remain strong. I remember you said that the last time we talked. Are you still involved with KANU?”

Jack nodded. “I’m still on their education committee, yes. We have our hotheads, people who want to switch allegiance to the Russians, or the Soviets, as the Americans now call them. But even the hotheads can see that Western medicine is better than the Russian, and as for law, Russia isn’t exactly known for its justice system. You probably read that they’ve just introduced the death penalty for stealing state property, and they shoot forgers. So yes, I still think education is the key, to keep Kenya in the fold and to help it find its feet.”

Sandys nodded. “Good, good.” He looked at his watch again. “Before we begin the deposition, I have some big news for you.”

He had their attention.

“Ndekei hasn’t changed his plea, or anything fundamental like that, but instead what he
has
done is more provocative, more newsworthy, more racially sensitive, more potentially catastrophic, and possibly much more dangerous. He is going to run a defense—a defense that is beyond him, intellectually speaking, a defense that has been concocted by the political sophisticates among his tribal elders—to say that he was acting under tribal law and that, according to Maasai tradition, what he did was perfectly legal.”

“Jeeesus!” whispered Jack, looking at Natalie.

Sandys nodded. “It won’t work, of course, not in law. But that’s not the point; the point is … it makes the trial a political trial straight off. It pits black against white, colonialists against the tribes, the past against the future. It will have all the trappings of a show trial, a circus, which Natalie here will be caught slap in the middle of.”

He fixed her with his eye. “I will explain the details after the deposition, over lunch. You need to understand just what you are taking on, what the risks are.” He smiled. “Those risks are not negligible, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine and that Jack will help.”

He turned to Jack. “Maybe we could have a drink later?”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Jack. “At the club?”

Sandys nodded. “Say six? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on with the deposition.”

He led the others out into the anteroom and then across to the corridor on the other side of the staircase, into a long conference chamber with a table and chairs, where two other men, one black, one white, were waiting.

“This is Hilary Hall, who will be leading the defense of Ndekei, and his junior counsel, Tombe Nshone, who comes from the same tribe as Mutevu.”

Hilary Hall had a pockmarked, rather red face, whereas Nshone was a tall, very handsome man, whose skin was made to seem all the blacker by his being dressed in a navy blue pinstripe suit and brilliant white shirt.

At a smaller table, to one side, sat a short woman wearing a dark blue dress. She had one of the new bottle-blonde hairstyles. In front of her was what looked like a small typewriter.

“This is Adele Compton, Dr. Nelson.” Sandys took a jug of water and some glasses from a sideboard and placed them on the main table. “She is the court stenographer and will record our conversation this morning.”

Both women exchanged nods.

“Would you like to sit there?” said Sandys, indicating a seat at the end of the table. “Hilary will sit one side and I the other. Jack, are you staying?”

“I don’t think so. You don’t need me, do you?”

“Not at all. In fact, it’s better if you’re not here.”

“How long will you be?”

“Two, two and a half hours. At the most.”

Jack made a face. “I don’t think I can get back before lunch—can you look after Natalie?”

“You’re going to risk leaving this beautiful woman with me?” Sandys smiled. “Don’t blame me if you don’t see her again.”

Jack chewed his lip with his teeth. “Dr. Nelson has been in the bush for some weeks, Max. Don’t blame me if you get your fingers burned.”

Natalie colored. Was she in the room or not?

Jack held out his hand to take her bag. “I’ll stop by at the hotel, and leave our luggage with the concierge.”

She handed her bag to him.

Jack made for the door. As he did so, Nshone said, “Dr. Deacon, I’ll come with you. There’s something I must discuss with you. Hilary doesn’t need me any more than Max needs you.”

They went out together.

And so, for the next two hours, she answered Sandys’s questions. The rival counsels—obviously old friends—were courteous with one another, with her, and with Mrs. Compton. No fresh information was revealed by these exchanges, and at about five to one, Sandys looked at his watch, rubbed his face with his hand, and said, “I think that about wraps it up. Hilary?”

Hall nodded, screwed the top on his pen, and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, Dr. Nelson,” he said, smiling down at her. “That’s all very clear, I think. Max’s office will send you a transcript, for you to read and sign. We need trouble you no further.” He turned back to Sandys. “A good morning’s work, Max. I think that by the end of the week we should be ready to go to the judge and ask for a date. Agreed?”

“Absolutely.” Sandys had also been using a fountain pen, which he now slipped inside his jacket. “No need to delay more than is necessary, especially in the current climate.”

“My thinking exactly.” The camaraderie continued. Hall gathered his papers, stood up, and went out.

Sandys waited until he had disappeared. A commotion could be heard in the square outside.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She shook her head. “I still wish I’d never seen Mutevu.” She turned in her seat. “Tell me one thing, because I’m confused. If Mutevu is going to argue that he was acting according to Maasai custom, then isn’t he admitting that he killed Richard, and if so why does my testimony matter? It seems to me that it doesn’t matter if I saw his face or just his shuffle, not if he is going to admit the killing.”

Sandys played with his tie. “Ah, yes, but the law doesn’t work like that. Or I should say court procedure, court practice doesn’t work like that. No one wants this trial to degenerate into a racial, black–white issue. So, given what became plain today, what will happen in the trial is this: At the very beginning, Ndekei will have the charge read to him and asked how he pleads. He will plead ‘not guilty’ but at that stage he doesn’t have to give his defense, his argument, just that he pleads not guilty. In law, he doesn’t have to reveal the nature of his defense until the prosecution’s case has been put. Then, after his plea, we—as the prosecution—will present our case, with you as the main witness. When our case has been put, and before Ndekei’s arguments are even heard, Hilary will almost certainly ask the judge to dismiss the charges, saying that since you never saw Ndekei’s face, there is not enough evidence to convict him. If the judge agrees, then Ndekei will be released, on the grounds of insufficient evidence, and the temperature—the political temperature—will be kept low.”

“And will that work? Is that what this morning was all about? Are you preparing to lose the case?”

“Not at all, not at all. I’m just explaining the system. It would be just the same if we were in London. We don’t know yet who the judge will be but we saw this morning that you will be an excellent witness—so the trial will proceed and only after we have put our case will Ndekei have to reveal his defense, that he was acting according to Maasai tradition. That will be explosive, but by then we will have spirited you away.”