Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (124 page)

Daniel ran down to the corner. He caught one more glimpse of her two hundred yards down the avenue, leaning over the handlebars like a jockey, her braid standing out stiffly from the back of her head in the wind. He looked around for a taxi to follow her, and then realised the futility of even trying. With the lead she had, and the Honda’s manoeuvrability no car could hope to catch her.

He turned on his heel and marched back towards the hotel, intent on finding Bonny Mahon. Before he reached the entrance he realised the danger of confronting here in his present mood. It could only lead to bloody battle, and probably the break-up of their relationship. That did not worry him too much, but what restrained him was the danger of losing a cameraman. It might take weeks to find a replacement, and that could lead to a cancellation of his contract with BOSS, the end of his quest to follow the Lucky Dragon, and Ning Cheng Gong, into Ubomo.

He checked his stride and thought about it. It wasn’t worth the pleasure of pinning back Bonny Mahon’s ears. “I’d better go and cool off somewhere.” He chose the Jambo, Bar, one of the notorious bars down near the station.

It was full of black soldiers in camouflage, and male tourists and bar girls. Some of the girls were spectacular, Samburu and Kikuyu and Masai, in tight shiny skirts with beads and bright ribbons braided into their hair.

Daniel found a bar stool in the corner, and the antics of the middle-aged European tourists on the dance floor helped to alleviate his foul mood. A recent survey of the Nairobi bar girls had determined that ninety-eight percent of them were HIV positive. You had to have a death wish to enjoy fully all that these ladies had to offer.

An hour and two double whiskies later, Daniel’s anger Had cooled sufficiently, and he headed back to the Norfolk Hotel. He let himself into the cottage suite and saw Bonny’s khaki slacks and panties in the centre of the sitting-room floor where she had dropped them. This evening her untidiness irritated him even more than usual.

The bedroom was in darkness, but the lights in the courtyard shone through the curtains sufficiently for him to make out Bonny’s form under the sheet on her side of the bed. He knew, she was feigning sleep. He undressed in the darkness, slipped naked into his side of the bed, and lay still.

Neither of them moved or spoke for fully five minutes and then Bonny whispered, “Is Daddy cross with his little girl?” She used her simpering childish voice. “His little girl was very naughty…” She touched him. Her fingers were warm and silky down his flank. “She wants to show him how sorry she is.”

He caught her wrist, but it was too late. She was cunning and quick and soon he didn’t want her to stop. “Damn it, Bonny,” he protested. “You screwed up a chance…”

“Shh! Don’t talk,” Bonny whispered. “Little girl will make it better for Daddy.”

“Bonny…” His voice trailed away, and he released her wrist.

Chapter 22

In the morning when Daniel checked the hotel bill before paying it, he noticed an item for 120 Kenya shillings. International telephone calls. He taxed Bonny with it. Did you make an overseas call last night? “I called my old mum to let her know I’m all right. I know how stingy you are, but you don’t grudge me that, do you?”

Something in her defiant manner troubled him. When she went ahead to see her video equipment safely packed into the taxi, Daniel lingered in the suite. As soon as she was gone he called the telephone exchange and asked the operator for the overseas number that was on his bill. “London 727 6464, sir.”

“Please get it for me again now.”

“It’s ringing, sir.”

A voice answered on the third ring. “Good morning, may I help you?”

“What number is that?” Daniel asked, but the speaker was guarded.

“Who did you want, please?” Daniel thought he recognized the voice, the strong African accent. He took a chance.

“Is that you, Selibi?” he asked in Swahili. “Yes, this is Selibi. Do you want to speak to the Bwana Mkubwa? Who shall I say is calling?”

Daniel hung up the receiver and stared at it. Selibi was Tug Harrison’s manservant. So Bonny had telephoned Tug’s flat the previous evening while he had been at the Jambo Bar. “Curiouser and curiouser,” Daniel muttered. “Miss Bonny isn’t all she pretends to be, unless her old mum lives in Holland Park.”

Every seat on the Air Ubomo flight to Kabali was taken. Most of the other passengers seemed to be businessmen or minor civil servants or politicians. There were half a dozen black Soldiers in camouflage and decoration ribbons, berets and dark glasses. There were, however, no tourists, not yet, not before BOSS opened the new casino on the lakeshore.

The hostess was a tall Hita girl in flamboyant national dress. She handed out packets of sweet biscuits and plastic mugs of luke-warm tea with the haughty air of a queen distributing alms to her poor subjects. Halfway through the four-hour flight she disappeared into the toilet with one of the soldiers and all cabin service came to a halt.

They hit heavy clear-air turbulence over the eastern rim of the Great Rift Valley and a corpulent black businessman in one of the front seats entertained them all with a noisy regurgitation of his breakfast. The air hostess remained ensconced in the rear toilet.

At last they were over the lake. Although like most names with colonial overtones, its name had been changed, Daniel still preferred Lake Albert to Lake Mobutu. The waters were pure azure, flecked with white horses and the sails of fishing dhows, and so wide that for a while there was no shore in sight. Then slowly the western shoreline emerged from the haze.

“Ubomo,” Daniel whispered, more to himself than to Bonny. The name had a romance and mystery that made the skin on his forearms tingle. He would be following in the footsteps of the great African explorers. Speke had passed this way, and Stanley and ten thousand other hunters and slavers, soldiers and adventurers. He must try to instil some of that feeling of romance and history into his production. Across these waters had plied the ancient Arab dhows laden with ivory and slaves, the black and white gold that had once been the continent’s major exports.

Some estimates were that five million souls had been captured like animals in the interior and herded down to the coast. To cross this lake they had been packed like sardines into the dhows, the first layer forced to lie on the bilge deck curled against each other, belly to back, like spoons. Then the removable deck planks were laid over them giving them eighteen inches of space, and another layer of human beings and another deck, until four decks were in place, crammed with howling, whining slaves. With fair winds the crossing took two days and three nights. The Arab slave-masters were satisfied with a fifty percent survival rate. It was a process of natural selection. Only the strong came through.

On the eastern shore of the lake the living were lifted out of the holds coated with faeces and vomit. The dead were tossed overboard to the waiting crocodiles. The survivors were allowed to rest and gather strength for the last stage of the journey. When their masters deemed them fit, they were chained and yoked in long lines, each slave carrying a tusk of ivory, and they were marched down to the coast.

Daniel wondered if he could simulate some of the horrors of the trade with actors and a hired dhow. He anticipated the outcry that this would raise. So often he had been accused by reviewers and critics of depicting gratuitous violence and savagery in his productions. There was only one reply: Africa is a savage and violent continent. Anybody who tries to hide that from you is no true story-teller. Blood was the fertiliser that made the African soil bloom.

He looked northwards across the shining waters. Up there where the Nile debauched from the lake there was a triangular wedge of land that fronted on to the river called the Lada Enclave. It had once been the private estate of the King of Belgium. The herds of elephant that inhabited those lands were more prolific and prodigiously tusked than anywhere else on the continent, and the Belgians had guarded and cherished them.

By international treaty the ownership of the Lada Enclave passed to the Sudan at the death of the Belgian king. When this happened the Belgian colonial service withdrew precipitately from the Lada, leaving a power vacuum. The European ivorypoachers swarmed in to take advantage. They fell upon the elephant herds and slaughtered them.

Karamojo Bell describes in his autobiography how he followed a Lada herd from dawn until dusk, running to keep pace with them, shooting and running on again. In that single bloody day be killed twenty-three elephant.

Little had changed in the years since then, Daniel thought sadly. The slaughter and the rapine continued. And Africa bled.

Africa cried to the civilised world for help, but what help was there to give? All the fifty member states of the Organization of African Unity combined were capable of generating only the same gross domestic product as little Belgium in the northern hemisphere.

How could the First World help Africa now? Daniel wondered. Aid poured into this vast continent was soaked up like a few raindrops upon the Saharan sands. A cynic had defined aid as simply the system by which poor white people in rich countries gave money to rich black people in poor countries to put into Swiss bank accounts. The sad truth was that Africa no longer mattered, particularly since the Berlin Wall had come down and Eastern Europe had started to emerge from the dark age of Communism. Africa was redundant. The rest of the world might give it passing sympathy, but Africa was beyond help. Europe would turn its attention to a more promising subject closer to home.

Daniel sighed and glanced at Bonny in the seat beside him. He wanted to discuss his thoughts, but she had kicked off her sandals and had her bare knees up against the back of the seat in front of her. She was chewing gum and reading a trashy science fiction paperback.

Instead Daniel looked out of the window again. The coast of Ubomo came up to meet them as the pilot began his descent. The savannah was red-brown as the hide of an impala antelope and studded with acacia trees. Upon the lakeshore the fishing villages were strung like beads, bound together by the narrow strip of green gardens and shambas that the Lake waters nurtured. The village children waved as the aircraft passed overhead, and when the pilot turned on to final approach Daniel had a distant view of blue mountains clad with dark forest.

The air hostess re-emerged from the toilet, looking smug and adjusting her long green skirt, and ordered them in English and Swahili to fasten their seat-belts.

The unpainted galvanised roofs of the town flashed beneath them and they touched down heavily on the dusty strip. They taxied past the skeleton of steel and concrete beams that would have been the grand new Ephrem Taffari airport building if only the money had not run out, and came to a halt in front of the humbler edifice of unburnt brick that was a relic of Victor Omeru’s reign.

As the door of the aircraft opened, the Heat pressed in upon them and they were sweating before they reached the airport building.

A Hira officer in camouflage battledress and maroon beret singled Daniel out of the straggling group of passengers and came out on the field to meet him. “Doctor Armstrong? I recognized you from the photograph on the dust-jacket of your book.” He held out his hand. “I’m Captain Kajo. I will be your guide during your stay. The president, in person, has asked me to welcome you and assure you of our whole-hearted cooperation. Sir Peter Harrison is a personal friend of his, and President Taffari has expressed the wish to meet you as soon as you have recovered from the ill effects of your journey. In fact he has arranged a cocktail party to welcome you to Ubomo.” Captain Kajo spoke excellent English. He was a striking young man, slim and tall in the classical Hita mould. He towered over Daniel by a couple of inches. His jet eyes began to sparkle as he studied Bonny Mahon.

“This is my camera operator, Miss Mahon,” Daniel introduced them, and Bonny looked back at Captain Kajo with equal interest.

In the army Landrover, piled with their luggage and video equipment, Bonny leaned close to Daniel and asked, “Is it true what they say about Africans being…” she sought the adjective, “about them being large?”

“Never made a study of it,” Daniel told her. “But I could find out for you, if you’d like.”

“Don’t put yourself out,” she grinned. “If necessary, I can do my own research.”

Since he had learned about her secret phone call to Tug Harrison, Daniel’s misgivings about her had increased. Now he didn’t trust her at all, and he didn’t even like her as much as he had only as recently as the previous day.

Chapter 23

It was new moon, but the stars were clear and bright. Their reflections on the still waters. Kelly Kinnear sat in the bows of the small dhow. The rigging creaked to the gentle push of the night breeze as they tacked across the lake.

The stars were magnificent. She turned her face up to them and whispered the lyrical names of the constellations as she recognized each of them. The stars were one of the few things she missed in the forest, for they were for ever hidden by the high unbroken canopy of the tree-tops. She savoured them now, for soon she would be without them.

The helmsman was singing a soft repetitive refrain, an invocation to the spirits of the lake depths, the djinni who controlled the fickle winds that pushed the dhow across the dark waters.

Kelly’s mood was changeable as the breeze, dropping and shifting and then rising again. She was elated at the prospect of going once more into the forest, and the reunion with dear friends she loved so well.

She was fearful of the journey and the dangers that still lay ahead before she could reach the safety of the tall trees. She was anxious that the political changes since the coup d’etat would have destroyed and damaged much in her absence. She was saddened by the memory of damage already done, destruction already wrought upon the forest in the few short years since she had first entered their hushed cathedral depths.

At the same time, she was gladdened by the promises of support she had received and the interest she had been able to stir up during her visit to England and Europe, but disappointed that the support had been mainly moral and vocal rather than financial or constructive. She mustered all her enthusiasm and determination and forced herself to look ahead optimistically.