The Dogs of War

by Frederick Forsyth

  Adrian Goole had been the FO’s liaison officer on the committee for most of the time. Now he sat opposite James Manson in the alcove dining recess, his cuffs shot the right inch and a quarter, his face registering earnest intent.

  Manson told him some of the truth but kept the reference to platinum out of it. He stuck to a tale of tin but increased the quantities. It would have been viable to mine it, of course, but quite frankly he’d been scared off by the close dependence of the President on the Russian advisers. The profit participation of the Zangaran government could well have made it a tidy sum, and since the despot was almost a puppet of the Russkies, who wanted to increase the republic’s power and influence through wealth? Goole took it all in. His face wore a solemn expression of deep concern.

  “Damnably difficult decision,” he said with sympathy. “Mind you, I have to admire your political sense. At the moment Zangaro is bankrupt and obscure. But if it became rich— Yes, you’re quite right. A real dilemma. When do you have to send them the survey report and analysis?”

  “Sooner or later,” grunted Manson. “The question is, what do I do about it? If they show it to the Russians at the embassy, the trade counselor is bound to realize the tin deposits are viable. Then it will go out for tender. So someone else will get it, still help to make the dictator rich, and then who knows what problems he’ll make for the West? One is back to square one.”

  Goole thought it over for a while.

  “I just thought I ought to let you chaps know,” said Manson.

  “Yes, yes, thank you.” Goole was absorbed. “Tell me,” he said at length, “what would happen if you halved the figures showing the quantity of tin per rock ton in the report?”

  “Halved them?”

  “Yes. Halved the figures, showing a purity figure of tin per rock ton of fifty percent the figures shown by your rock samples?”

  “Well, the quantity of tin present would be shown to be economically unviable.”

  “And the rock samples could have come from another area, a mile away, for example?” asked Goole.

  “Yes, I suppose they could. But my surveyor found the richest rock samples.”

  “But if he had not done so,” pursued Goole. “If he had taken his samples from a mile from where he actually operated. The content could be down by fifty percent?”

  “Yes, it could. They probably would, probably would show even less than fifty percent. But he operated where he did.”

  “Under supervision?” asked Goole.

  “No. Alone.”

  “And there are no real traces of where he worked?”

  “No,” replied Manson. “Just a few rock chippings, long since overgrown. Besides, no one goes up there. It’s miles from anywhere.”

  He paused for a few instants to light a cigar. “You know, Goole, you’re a damnably clever fellow. Steward, another brandy, if you please.”

  They parted with mutual jocularity on the steps of the club. The doorman hailed a taxi for Goole to go back to Mrs. Goole in Holland Park.

  “One last thing,” said the FO man by the taxi door. “Not a word to anyone else about this. I’ll have to file it, well classified, at the department, but otherwise it remains just between you and us at the FO.”

  “Of course,” said Manson.

  “I’m very grateful you saw fit to tell me all this. You have no idea how much easier it makes our job on the economic side to know what’s going on. I’ll keep a quiet eye on Zangaro, and if there should be any change in the political scene there, you’ll be the first to know. Good night.”

  Sir James Manson watched the taxi head down the road and signaled to his Rolls-Royce waiting up the street.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he mimicked. “Too bloody right I will, boy. ’Cause I’m going to start it.”

  He leaned through the passenger-side window and observed to Craddock, his chauffeur, “If pisswilly little buggers like that had been in charge of building our empire, Craddock, we might by now just about have colonized the Isle of Wight.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Sir James,” said Craddock.

  When his employer had climbed into the rear, the chauffeur slid open the communicating panel. “Gloucestershire, Sir James?”

  “Gloucestershire, Craddock.”

  It was starting to drizzle again as the sleek limousine swished down Piccadilly and up Park Lane, heading for the A40 and the West Country, carrying Sir James Manson toward his ten-bedroom mansion bought three years earlier for him by a grateful company for £250,000. It also contained his wife and nineteen-year-old daughter, but these he had won himself.

  An hour later Gordon Chalmers lay beside his wife, tired and angry from the row they had had for the past two hours. Peggy Chalmers lay on her back, looking up at the ceiling.

  “I can’t do it,” Chalmers said for the umpteenth time. “I can’t just go and falsify a mining report to help James Bloody Manson make more money.”

  There was a long silence. They had been over it all a score of times since Peggy had read Manson’s letter to his banker and heard from her husband the conditions of future financial security.

  “What does it matter?” she said in a low voice from the darkness beside him. “When all’s said and done, what does it matter? Whether he gets the concession, or the Russians, or no one. Whether the price rises or falls. What does it matter? It’s all pieces of rock and grains of metal.”

  Peggy Chalmers swung herself across her husband’s torso and stared at the dim outline of his face. Outside, the night wind rattled the branches of the old elm close to which they had built the new house with the special fittings for their crippled daughter.

  When Peggy Chalmers spoke again it was with passionate urgency. “But Margaret is not a piece of rock, and I am not a few grains of metal. We need that money, Gordon. We need it now and for the next ten years. Please, darling, please just one time forget the idea of a nice letter to Tribune or Private Eye and do what he wants.”

  Gordon Chalmers continued to stare at the slit of window between the curtains, which was half open to let in a breath of air.

  “All right,” he said at length.

  “You’ll do it?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’ll bloody do it.”

  “You swear it, darling? You give me your word?”

  There was another long pause. “You have my word,” said the low voice from the face above her.

  She pillowed her head in the hair of his chest. “Thank you, darling. Don’t worry about it. Please don’t worry. You’ll forget it in a month. You’ll see.”

  Ten minutes later she was asleep, exhausted by the nightly struggle to get Margaret bathed and into bed, and by the unaccustomed quarrel with her husband.

  Gordon Chalmers continued to stare into the darkness. “They always win,” he said softly and bitterly after a while. “The bastards, they always bloody win.”

  The following day, Saturday, he drove the five miles to the laboratory and wrote out a completely new report for the republic of Zangaro. Then he burned his notes and the original report and trundled the core samples over to the scrap heap, where a local builder would remove them for concrete and garden paths. He mailed the fresh report, registered, to Sir James Manson at the head office, went home, and tried to forget it.

  On Monday the report was received in London, and the instructions to the bankers in Chalmers’ favor were mailed. The report was sent down to Overseas Contracts for Willoughby and Bryant to read, and Bryant was told to leave the next day and take it to the Minister of Natural Resources in Clarence. A letter from the company would be attached, expressing the appropriate regret.

  On Tuesday evening Richard Bryant found himself in Number One Building at London’s Heathrow Airport, waiting for a BEA flight to Paris, where he could get the appropriate visa and make a connecting flight by Air Afrique. Five hundred yards away, in Three Building, Jack Mulrooney humped his bag through Passport Control to catch the BOAC overnight Jumbo to Nairobi. He w
as not unhappy. He had had enough of London. Ahead lay Kenya, sun, bush, and the chance of a lion.

  By the end of the week only two men had in their heads the knowledge of what really lay inside the Crystal Mountain. One had given his word to his wife to remain silent forever, and the other was plotting his next move.

  five

  Simon Endean entered Sir James Manson’s office with a bulky file containing his hundred-page report on the republic of Zangaro, a dossier of large photographs, and several maps. He told his chief what he had brought.

  Manson nodded his approval. “No one learned while you were putting all this together who you were or who you worked for?” he asked.

  “No, Sir James. I used a pseudonym, and no one questioned it.”

  “And no one in Zangaro could have learned that a file of data could have been put together about them?”

  “No. I used existing archives, sparse though they are, some university libraries here and in Europe, standard works of reference, and the one tourist guide published by Zangaro itself, although in fact this is a leftover from colonial days and five years out-of-date. I always claimed I was simply seeking information for a graduate thesis on the entire African colonial and postcolonial situation. There will be no comebacks.”

  “All right,” said Manson. “I’ll read the report later. Give me the main facts.”

  For answer Endean took one of the maps from the file and spread it across the desk. It showed a section of the African coastline, with Zangaro marked.

  “As you see, Sir James, it’s stuck like an enclave on the coast here, bordered on the north and east by this republic and on the short southern border by this one. The fourth side is the sea, here.

  “It’s shaped like a matchbox, the short edge along the seacoast, the longer sides stretching inland. The borders were completely arbitrarily drawn in the old colonial days during the scramble for Africa, and merely represent lines on a map. On the ground there are no effective borders, and due to the almost complete nonexistence of roads there is only one border-crossing point—here, on the road leading north to the neighbor country, Manandi. All land traffic enters and leaves by this road.”

  Sir James Manson studied the enclave on the map and grunted. “What about the eastern and southern borders?”

  “No road, sir. No way in or out at all, unless you cut straight through the jungle, and in most places it is impenetrable bush.

  “Now, in size it has seven thousand square miles, being seventy miles along the coast and a hundred miles deep into the hinterland. The capital, Clarence, named after the sea captain who first put in there for freshwater two hundred years ago, is here, in the center of the coast, thirty-five miles from the northern and southern borders.”

  “Behind the capital lies a narrow coastal plain, which is the only cultivated area in the country, apart from the bush natives’ tiny clearings in the jungle. Behind the plain lies the river Zangaro, then the foothills of the Crystal Mountains, the mountains themselves, and beyond that, miles and miles of jungle up to the eastern border.”

  “How about other communications?” asked Manson.

  “There are virtually no roads at all,” said Endean. “The river Zangaro flows from the northern border fairly close to the coast across most of the republic until it reaches the sea just short of the southern border. On the estuary there are a few jetties and a shanty or two, which constitute a small port for the exporting of timber. But there are no wharves, and the timber businesses have virtually ceased since independence. The fact that the Zangaro River flows almost parallel to the coast, slanting in toward it, for sixty miles, in effect cuts the republic in two; there is this strip of coastal plain to the seaward side of the river, ending in mangrove swamps which make the whole coast unapproachable by shipping or small boats, and the hinterland beyond the river. East of the river are the mountains, and beyond them the hinterland. The river could be used for barge traffic, but no one is interested. Manandi has a modern capital on the coast with a deep-water harbor, and the Zangaro River itself ends in a silted-up estuary.”

  “What about the timber-exporting operations? How were they carried out?”

  Endean took a larger-scale map of the republic out of the file and laid it on the table. With a pencil he tapped the Zangaro estuary in the south of Zangaro.

  “The timber used to be cut up-country, either along the banks or in the western foothills of the mountains. There’s still quite good timber there, but since independence no one is interested. The logs were floated downriver to the estuary and parked there. When the ships came they would anchor offshore and the log rafts were towed out to them by power boats. Then they hoisted the logs aboard by using their own derricks. It always was a tiny operation.”

  Manson stared intently at the large-scale map taking in the seventy miles of coast, the river running almost parallel to it twenty miles inland, the strip of impenetrable mangrove swamp between the river and the sea, and the mountains behind the river. He could identify the Crystal Mountain but made no mention of it.

  “What about the main roads? There must be some.”

  Endean warmed to his explanation. “The capital is stuck on the seaward end of a short, stubby peninsula here, midway down the coast. It faces toward the open sea. There’s a small port, the only real one in the country, and behind the town the peninsula runs back to join the main landmass. There is one road which runs down the spine of the peninsula and six miles inland, going straight east. Then there is the junction—here. A road runs to the right, heading south. It is laterite for seven miles, then becomes an earth road for the next twenty. Then it peters out on the banks of the Zangaro estuary.

  “The other branch turns left and runs north, through the plain west of the river and onward to the northern border. Here there is a crossing point manned by a dozen sleepy and corrupt soldiers. A couple of travelers told me they can’t read a passport anyway, so they don’t know whether there is a visa in it or not. You just bribe them a couple of quid to get through.”

  “What about the road into the hinterland?” asked Sir James.

  Endean pointed with his finger. “It’s not even marked, it’s so small. Actually, if you follow the north-running road after the junction, go along it for ten miles, there is a turnoff to the right, toward the hinterland. It’s an earth road. It crosses the remainder of the plain and then the Zangaro River, on a rickety wooden bridge—”

  “So that bridge is the only communication between the two parts of the country on either side of the river?” asked Manson in wonderment.

  Endean shrugged. “It’s the only crossing for wheeled traffic. But there is hardly any wheeled traffic. The natives cross the Zangaro by canoe.”

  Manson changed the subject, though his eyes never left the map. “What about the tribes who live there?”

  “There are two,” said Endean. “East of the river and right back to the end of the hinterland is the country of the Vindu. For that matter, more Vindu live over the eastern border. I said the borders were arbitrary. The Vindu are practically in the Stone Age. They seldom, if ever, cross the river and leave their bush country. The plain to the west of the river and down to the sea, including the peninsula on which the capital stands, is the country of the Caja. They hate the Vindu, and vice versa.”

  “Population?”

  “Almost uncountable in the interior. Officially put at two hundred and twenty thousand in the entire country. That is, thirty thousand Caja and an estimated one hundred and ninety thousand Vindu. But the numbers are a total guess—except probably the Caja can be counted accurate.”

  “Then how the hell did they ever hold an election?” asked Manson.

  “That remains one of the mysteries of creation,” said Endean. “It was a shambles, anyway. Half of them didn’t know what a vote was or what they were voting for.”

  “What about the economy?”

  “There is hardly any left,” replied Endean. “The Vindu country produces nothing. The lot
of them just about subsist on what they can grow in yam and cassava plots cut out of the bush by the women, who do any work there is to be done, which is precious little—unless you pay them well; then they will carry things. The men hunt. The children are a mass of malaria, trachoma, bilharzia, and malnutrition.

  “In the coastal plain there were in colonial days plantations of low-grade cocoa, coffee, cotton, and bananas. These were run and owned by whites, who used native labor. It wasn’t high-quality stuff, but it made enough, with a guaranteed European buyer, the colonial power, to make a bit of hard currency and pay for the minimal imports. Since independence, these have been nationalized by the President, who expelled the whites, and given to his party hacks. Now they’re about finished, overgrown with weeds.”

  “Got any figures?”

  “Yes, sir. In the last year before independence total cocoa output—that was the main crop—was thirty thousand tons. Last year it was one thousand tons, and there were no buyers. It’s still rotting on the ground.”

  “And the others—coffee, cotton, bananas?”

  “Bananas and coffee virtually ground to a halt through lack of attention. Cotton got hit by a blight, and there were no insecticides.”

  “What’s the economic situation now?”

  “Total disaster. Bankrupt, money worthless paper, exports down to almost nothing, and nobody letting them have any imports. There have been gifts from the UN, the Russians, and the colonial powers, but as the government always sells the stuff elsewhere and pockets the cash, even these three have given up.”

  “A cheap tinhorn dictatorship, eh?” murmured Sir James.

  “In every sense. Corrupt, vicious, brutal. They have seas off the coast rich in fish, but they can’t fish. The two fishing boats they had were skippered by whites. One got beaten up by the army thugs, and both quit. Then the engines rusted up, and the boats were abandoned. So the locals have protein deficiency. There aren’t even goats and chickens to go around.”