Wings of the Morning (38 page)

‘Right then Guv. I get the picture and I suppose you want this done quickly. Happens I know something of this man Hamadou, like where he lives and how he likes to spend his Saturday
nights.’

‘Good God, Bill, how the hell d’you know that? Any of it?’

Evans was unmoved. ‘It’s what you pay me for, Guv. I just keep an eye on regular visitors. Most often it comes to nothing and no threat to the Mansion, but sometimes it’s paid
off and this looks like one such. Now this Hamadou lives in a plush pad off Eaton Mews. On his own but he pays big money for his company. He uses an escort agency run by a woman I had police
business with, so she keeps me in the picture. He likes to drink in Soho — only the straight pubs mind — and he gambles in Belgravia. I can set up a party for him this evening, only
I’ll need the dosh obviously.’

They agreed on a plan and the timing. Bill Evans left. At 7.30pm that evening, Peter Hamadou was halfway through a bottle of champagne at Crockfords Club in Mayfair. He received the message that
he had a visitor and went down to find two young women waiting for him. Peter knew one of them under her working name of Kayla. She introduced her friend as Portia who was tall and lissom with
honey blonde hair and a knowing look. Kayla announced that the two of them were going to the Blue Lagoon for a bit of dancing. They needed a ‘big dark handsome guy who can manage
two’.

What the hell, thought Hamadou. I deserve a celebration what with those Ogoni vermin killed off and some extra for me from the General thanks to the scam over that silly old sod, Heaven. So he
agreed happily and didn’t spare a glance for the driver of the cab waiting for them. He didn’t notice Bill Evans activate the door locks but it did seem to be a long drive, even with
the distraction of Portia’s hands playing lightly over his crotch. Kayla reassured him that although Lewisham wasn’t quite the West End, this club was something special. She was right:
so special it didn’t exist, but Peter was still unconcerned as the girls led him playfully through the garish front of a pub called The Tiger’s Head and straight through a packed bar to
a solid looking door at the back. This was the point at which the girls vanished, the door opened and strong arms pulled him inside. There were two guys to handle him, one black and one white: both
were large, solid and silent.

They ran Hamadou across a large, unfurnished room. What appeared to be a ballet barre was fixed to the length of the back wall and his assailants wrapped a pair of handcuffs around it and back
to clip over his wrists. Then they walked off without a word. Hamadou could walk up and down but he couldn’t escape the barre. What the hell was going on here?

At 0100 on the Sunday morning, he was slumped on his knees, his wrists still captive, his suit dishevelled and stained where the champagne had caught up with him. He stirred as a draught of air
reached him. He looked up to see that two more women had entered and were advancing on him. He felt encouraged. They looked to be a couple of good sorts with long legs beneath short and twitching
skirts and again, one was black and one white. He struggled to his feet, hardly noticing their companion who was a short, scruffy man with a beer belly and a mass of camera equipment around his
neck.

The girls came on without a word or a smile or a threat. It was the absolute absence of expression which was the most unnerving. The Black produced a knife which had Hamadou quaking, but she
used it simply to cut away his suit jacket and shirt. Simultaneously, White squatted beside him, lifting one foot to remove the shoe: then the other. She undid his belt, pulled down his trousers
and underwear and kicked the pile of clothing away.

Peter Hamadou stood naked in his socks, his hands still manacled around the barre, still expecting some bizarre but titillating experience to follow. The girls started to undress themselves, a
pink blouse from White and a flowing hairpiece from Black to reveal a crew cut, bullet head. They moved together in front of him to peel off their skirts and reveal that they weren’t women
... but men. He recoiled as they crowded in on either side in a provocative pose as the fat little photographer snapped and sniggered, scuttling round for the best angles of this unseemly
threesome.

This first photo shoot did not take long and he was to wish it had taken longer. White broke off to rummage in her handbag and came up with a second pair of handcuffs and keys to the first. The
two of them grabbed and held him with dominant strength. They bent him over the barre and secured the cuffs wrist to ankle. Hamadou was entirely captive and yowled his protest as Black and White
took up the short, whippy quirts they had brought with them and went to work on him in earnest. They were fit and strong: pretty soon, Hamadou forgot his lack of dignity and concentrated only on
the pain. The plump photographer kept working with a lascivious grin, wreathed by the smoke rising from the cigarette clamped between his teeth.

At midday precisely, the same cab arrived at Heathrow Airport and Bill Evans emerged to help Peter Hamadou who was unwashed and unshaved, his back and buttocks still bloodied beneath his jeans
and shirt. Despite his appearance, he had a first class ticket for the Nigeria Airways direct flight to Port Harcourt. Evans had the connections to let him accompany the passenger right though to
the gate, even to see him to his seat on the aircraft. At the same time, David Heaven was in The Mansion House, overseeing the despatch of details and photographs. Hamadou was collected in Port
Harcourt and escorted to a personal interview by General Abacha who was known to abhor homosexuality and who required an explanation for the $25,000 in cash found in Peter’s luggage. But
perhaps the General should have given more credence to his account. Abacha himself died three years later from poison administered by Egyptian prostitutes. It was never clear who had hired
them.

That Sunday evening in London, David Heaven sat alone in his apartment above 100 Piccadilly and reflected. He had wreaked some vengeance and started the plan for more. But that was not enough
and he knew it. He was resolved. He had reached his point of decision. He was sick and tired of balancing the books of influence, of blustering and bribing, of bobbing and bowing and hoping for the
best. It had taken the fate of the Ogoni Nine to fire his starting gun.

THE OXFORD FIVE — 1996

They had gathered at The Mansion House on a blustery day in late March. There were nine of them. Aischa was with David, Alexa and Hugh had flown in from Hong Kong, Conrad
alone, Pente from Northumberland and King from Grosvenor Square. Martin was there, and finally Ursula Hampton, David’s PA and close friend.

David had assembled them for a business meeting, saying there would be a sandwich lunch with tea and drinks later. He wasted no time in getting started.

‘It’s good to see you all. I expect you’re wondering why you’re here and at least that’s easy to answer. You‘re important people to me: my best friends, with
whom I’ve shared a lot of years. What’s more, you’ve each got experience and expertise which I need. I have a Grand Plan, you see, which I want to share with you. Afterwards, I
want your reactions.

‘Now I just have to set the scene. I want to talk to you about Africa which has been my business, my heart and soul for the last thirty years. I love Africa, you all know that, but the
fact is that the continent has been going backwards for all the years I’ve been travelling there. Let me give you a tour around as we sit here.

‘There are some bright spots. South Africa may be one of them and what a bonus to win the Rugby World Cup last year. But Nelson Mandela is only one man, even if a saint with wisdom. He
can’t do it all himself. I worry about what comes next.

‘Developments are pretty good in Ghana and I think the pace will be sustained under Rawlings. The world view of Museveni in Uganda is positive: he can’t do worse than Idi Amin.
Stable times continue in Cameroun, and there’s good growth in Senegal. Chissano has ended the civil war in Mozambique and the refugees are coming home. There is great potential in Angola.
Kenya is ... well OK, but Tanzania is nothing like what it should be. Nigeria is the curate’s egg — good in parts.

‘So there are nuggets of encouragement, but taken overall, it’s not a terrific record since Macmillan started us talking about the Wind of Change thirty-five years ago. And
that’s before you start looking at the other side of the ledger.

‘In the north, Chad and the Central African Republic are landlocked, remote and desperately poor. Nigeria is under a despot, so is Zaire which should be the richest state on the continent.
Mobutu is a sick man who can’t last long and there’ll be a bloodbath to follow. There’s the wretched history of the Rwanda genocide which the world stood by to watch. Zimbabwe is
on the road to ruin. Sudan is divided in itself and ruthless in its squabbles with worse to come. On the East and West coasts you have Somalia and Equatorial Guinea, two regimes which are a byword
for basket case.

‘I could go on, but this isn’t a lecture and you get my point. Fifty years of transition from colonial rule to Independence and we don’t have one single success story to show
for it. Not one. So what do we have? I put it this way. If the whole continent was a company, then the directors would be due for the chop. The results speak for themselves. Sales down, profits
down, assets devalued, infrastructure crumbled. People numbers way up, their welfare and skills down through the floor. Morale? Don’t even ask.

‘There’s more too, but outside the commercial analogy. Clear across the continent there’s torture, graft, corruption of every kind, wilful incompetence on a scale to beggar
belief.

‘So what’s the rest of the world doing about this desecration? Well, we’re just about past propping up puppet regimes. We wring our hands and chuck more money at the extreme
problems. We update our language and call Africa “developing” rather than “third world”. Otherwise we shrug it off, expect nothing and hope for better. And that works in a
way. Look at us around this table. Connie’s Bastion business is flourishing, The Mansion House is going great guns, Pente isn’t running out of souls to save ... etc.’

David paused for a minute while his eyes drifted slowly round his audience. Then he resumed.

‘I’m fifty-three now. I can go on for another ten, maybe fifteen years and I’m sure there will be another business lifetime for those coming after me. But I’ve decided
that’s just not good enough. Not for me. I’m sick of picking the good bits out of a decaying carcass. I’ve had enough of loitering on the sidelines, watching all the castles
crumble and listening to the statesmen prosing. I want to spend the rest of my time in regeneration.

‘There’s simply got to be a better way forward for Africa: a clean sheet and a fresh start somewhere. But how do you manage that? There’s no part left unexplored, no unclaimed
territory to settle. You can try to influence events and you can buy people and politicians. But you can’t buy sovereignty.

‘The remaining option is acquisition: a takeover. That’s what I propose to do.’

He sat back in his chair and picked up his cup of coffee.

There was a stunned silence which overlaid the background noises of Martin fiddling with a spoon and the rasp of Pente’s lighter. King Offenbach was first to react.

‘Say, David, this is kinda momentous stuff isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is. It’s tough to spring it on you like this King, and that goes for Connie and Pente too. For different reasons, I’ve spoken to the others already but the basic
concept has been revolving in my mind for years now.’

Pente puffed a cloud of cigar smoke and tugged at his beard.

‘David’, he said frowning, ‘I’m really not understanding this. I’ve known you most of my life, and you’re not one for the grand announcement. Normally
it’s quite a job to dig things out of you, and yet here you are sounding like a politician at the hustings, setting out your stall. And what a proposition! Are you honestly serious?
You’re planning a coup d’état?’

‘Pente, you’ve been yourself where I am now. It’s all about when you recognise that here comes your opportunity and then you have a choice: walk away forever, or stand up to be
counted. So yes, I am planning a coup d’état, but aiming for a coup de maître. That’s not to split hairs. I want a master stroke — swift, sure and with minimum
casualties’.

‘But still some?’

‘Inevitably, I’m afraid.’

There was a heavy silence in the room.

David felt the tension around him. There was surprise, a sense of disbelief, but also unhappiness, animosity. He was helped by an intervention from Aischa.

‘I am the only one amongst you to have been born a child of Africa. I should therefore care the most but probably I worry the least over the principle at stake. In Africa, every country
was colonised and most gained independence leading to internal strife. So history makes us accustomed to change and tolerant of some new chief coming in. It doesn’t bother us greatly unless
we’re placed in extreme danger or great discomfort, and those two often go together. We’re cynical, you see, we’ve heard all the great promises before. But we’re patient and
resilient as well. We get by. If someone like David wants to bring in change, Mr Average is likely to say “Oh yeah? I’ll believe that when I can feel it, but bring it on anyway and
let’s have a look.”