Black Pearl

by Peter Tonkin

  Ironyen

  Ten minutes later, Richard was watching the puking wreck hanging between two of Anastasia’s biggest Amazons come whimpering back to life. They had dragged Odem out of the mud and halfway to the compound before there was any real certainty he would survive. And now that he was showing signs of life, Richard broke into a trot while the Amazons carried their captive towards the brightness of the camp. ‘Right,’ he choked into his headset. ‘Check in. Esan. Have the Mils got enough fuel to get us all down the mountain as planned?’ He paused as Esan confirmed. Anastasia and the Amazons were all accounted for. ‘Abiye? Mako and your men OK? Good. We’ll be with you in a minute. Ivan, what about your Russians?’ He paused again, listening for Ivan’s reply. But then he was interrupted as the radio operator cut in. ‘Oshodi? What? Kebila’s jets are on the way in? OK. One run with cannon and bombs to close the road to Congo Libre. That should do it. We’ll keep an eye out. Keep us informed.’ He began again. ‘Ivan, what were you saying? All Russians accounted for. Except for Max! Max! Where in hell’s name’s Max?’

  Bala Ngama had not been clutching Max out of fear as the Mil dragged the Zodiac across the mat of water hyacinth. The general was inexperienced but he was no fool. And Ivan had been his usual overconfident self too. For Ngama carried a weapon that the cursory search did not reveal. It was a Walther P22 in an ankle holster on his right leg. Through most of the voyage, its barrel was jammed into Max’s ribs. Ngama reckoned that the Russian billionaire should ensure that anyone thought twice before acting too hastily when they came to deal with Ngama himself. Like Max, when the positions had been reversed, Ngama was looking to cut a deal. In furtherance of which, he was not sitting idly but was searching with his spare hand amongst the equipment boxes beneath his seat. There were all sorts of useful things in there, and at the very least he stood a good chance of finding a torch. And so it proved. He felt the familiar icy column of a Maglite’s handle. He pushed it into his capacious pocket, his mind racing with plans to make best use of it, his gun and his hostage.

  But then the RIB flipped over. When the two men were spilled out on to the lake shore, Ngama kept tight hold of both his gun and of Max. Whereas everyone else ran towards the camp as soon as they had picked themselves up, Ngama pushed Max towards the shadows, then on towards the darkness of the strip of jungle separating the work areas from the road across Karisoke into Congo Libre. The roaring of the vanishing water and the battering bluster of the Mil’s downdraught made it impossible to hear anything else. So the two men staggered away and nobody noticed they were gone.

  Ngama’s desperate need for speed ensured that they stayed as high on the bank as possible – where the roots of the cane forest kept the soil solid. So they avoided the nets that were already wrapping themselves round Colonel Odem up ahead. And they also stayed clear of the deadly gas. The shoreline formed a series of little bays with outcrops of bamboo thick enough to conceal the two parties running this way and that from each other. They passed one another unobserved and unaware – one set dragging their whimpering captive towards the light and the other pushing his towards the darkness.

  But the darkness was not absolute. The moon had been waxing for the last few nights and tonight it was full, casting its beams over the two men running along the lake shore. It was even bright enough for Ngama to make out Odem’s discarded AK74. ‘Stop!’ he yelled at Max, who was at least able to hear him now that they were away from the dam, most of the water was out of the lake and the Mils were both hovering down at the far end. The Russian obeyed and stood gasping as Ngama stooped and grabbed the rifle. He pocketed the Walther and swung the AK up into his armpit, using it to gesture Max forward into the jungle. Only when it was towering oppressively above them did Ngama dare get out the Maglite and switch it on.

  Max was ready to explode with frustration and anger. To have been within millimetres of rescue and then to watch it slip away! But he could see no alternative other than to obey for the moment and keep an eye out for a chance to turn the tables. He did as ordered, therefore, and plunged forward along the beam of brightness Ngama’s torch laid down. He was unknowingly following in the footsteps of Mizuki Yukawa when she had come stumbling this way more than forty years earlier with the pictures of Dr Koizumi’s death replaying in her mind. Prodded by the barrel of the AK whenever his footsteps faltered, Max pushed through the ferns, tripping over roots and stumbling into bushes. ‘Keep going!’ snarled Ngama. ‘You will soon see the lights from the roadway, then we will be safe.’

  Max pushed through a jungle wall into a kind of path. He did not recognize it as an elephant trail any more than Mizuki Yukawa had done when she too discovered it. The trail had become overgrown but it still led down to the massive barrier of the fallen tree, then it turned to one side and now led out on to the wilderness of the lava flow with its makeshift road running up to Congo Libre. ‘Hurry up!’ snarled Ngama, made impatient by the nearness of safety and the hope of escape. ‘We’re there! We’re nearly …’

  The panther leaped out of the bushes and hit the general from behind. It was a huge beast, raised on the carefully balanced diet that the zookeepers in Granville Harbour had calculated would make it grow strong and healthy. It did not occur to them – for they did not know what its ultimate fate would be – that it would come to associate human scent with that of the food they brought it. Since its release into the wild, it had starved. And Ngama smelt like a good square meal as far as it was concerned. It measured more than two and a half metres from nose to tail-tip and, even half starved, it weighed more than ninety kilos. It was moving at nearly fifty kph when it hit him. Ngama hurled forward, losing his grip on the AK and throwing it towards Max. The gun hit the Russian on the back as the general vanished under the bulk of the massive predator, his torch beam only serving to show the beast’s face as it sank the huge white blades of its canine teeth into the screaming general’s throat. There was a choking gurgle, a pulsing hiss, a sound of ripping. A sharp crack as though a big branch had been broken. The deep purring growl of a feeding cat.

  Max grabbed the gun and took to his heels with the sounds pursuing him down the elephant path. He had no thought except to escape, so he pounded down the trail blindly, shadows gathering impenetrably in front of him as the torchlight died and the last of the moonlight was swallowed by the canopy above. But then, through the pallisade of utter blackness which was the stand of trees to his left, he saw the promise of some brightness. He remembered what Ngama had said about a road over the mountain to Congo Libre. He turned, following the illusory beams, grateful that the dreadful sounds coming from behind him were fading. A wind came through, fanning his face, bringing with it a faint rumble of motors and the welcome stench of diesel exhaust.

  But then, seemingly immediately above his head, there gathered the screaming howl of a squadron, its jets going into the attack. What had been flickers of brightness like fireflies in front of him exploded into a thunderous magnesium-white inferno so intense that he wondered for a moment whether the volcano had erupted. But then he understood. The Benin La Bas air force had just closed the road to Congo Libre. ‘NO!’ he screamed.

  Suddenly the darkness etched before him by that massive wall of sheer white light coalesced into a familiar shape, and Max found himself screaming profanities into the face of an angry gorilla. It came out of the undergrowth without giving any warning at all. Like Max, it was overwhelmed and terrified by the air-raid on the nearby road. Like the panther, it had been raised in the zoo and was a superb specimen. It towered two metres high and weighed two hundred and fifty kilos. Its arms extended two and a half metres, ending in hands nearly thirty centimetres wide – and they reached for the screaming Russian as it charged. Without any thought at all, Max started firing the AK74. Its bullets smashed into the huge creature’s abdomen, but they missed its spine and pelvis so they did not slow it down. It reached for the gun and tore it out of Max’s hands. Then, holding it by the barrel, it smashed Max’s face open. All the
Russian billionaire’s cunning, planning, deviousness and ambition were bludgeoned out of his head along with his brains. If there was one last thought, it was simple astonishment at the overwhelming irony. Ironyen. It was actually funny, in a twisted Russian sort of way. After all he had been through – put Nastia through in one way and another – that it should come to this. Simian Artillery. He was actually being killed. By an ape. With a gun.

  His body fell back on to the elephant path without even twitching and lay there, less than twenty metres from the remains of Mizuki Yukawa. The gorilla rose up and drove the stock of the assault rifle down on to Max’s head one last time. And the gun went off. The rest of the clip emptied itself automatically into the gorilla. Twenty rounds of five point four five millimetre ammunition went up under its massive chin and out through the top of its skull at nine hundred metres per second. The gorilla stood still for a second, as though hardly able to believe that it, too, was dead. And then it fell forward to bury the body of the man it had just killed with its own mountainous black bulk.

  Black Pearls

  8.30 a.m.

  Richard and Robin always preferred to stay at the Kempinski when they were in St Petersburg. They loved its combination of old-world charm, courteous service and fine dining. Their favourite suite overlooked the Moika River, had a decor of restful blue and was full of photographs of 1930s sailboats. When they visited in the summer they always ate out on the balcony of the Bellvue Brasserie on the top floor. Not only was the food exquisite, so was the view which overlooked the back of the Hermitage. They had eaten there yesterday evening, soon after their arrival in the city. But the view had proved less than uplifting because it also included the golden onion domes of The Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood, which was where they were bound for today for Max’s long-delayed memorial. It was just as well that there would not be a coffin. It had been Richard and Ivan who dragged the gorilla off Max’s corpse the next morning when they found what was left of Ngama and his hostage, though it had been Anastasia who had seen the irony and laughed with a mixture of bitterness and hysteria until Ivan half carried her back to the camp. That had been at the end of last summer and now it was spring, with even St Petersburg thawing under an early heat wave. Max’s will had mentioned his wish to have his memorial at the Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood; an unexpectedly romantic gesture that had cost a good deal of extra time. It was the church he had promised that Ivan Yagula and Anastasia would be married in – in the days before his own Ivan died.

  As usual, Richard was up and about first. He showered and shaved – a process that took longer these days courtesy of Ivan’s over-assiduous help with his disguise. Then, wrapped in one of the hotel’s dressing gowns, he crossed to the bedside phone and dialled 914. ‘A cafetière of Blue Mountain,’ he said, rubbing his still-tender jaw, testing a still-loose tooth. ‘Robin, do you want tea?’ Robin grunted in the affirmative and rolled over. ‘And a pot of English Breakfast tea, please.’ He hung up. ‘Mind if I take a look at the news?’ he asked. Robin grunted.

  Richard picked up the remote handset and scrolled through the channels until he got the BBC World News. He was just in time for the four o’clock news GMT – which made it five a.m. in London and eight a.m. in Moscow and here. ‘Better shake a leg, darling. We’re meeting Felix at ten. Service is at eleven.’ He didn’t quite catch what she said in reply but he heard the word, ‘tea’.

  He was distracted by the news report. ‘… And in a surprise announcement from Granville Harbour, Julius Chaka has conceded defeat. President Chaka will be succeeded by his daughter, the freedom fighter and political activist Celine Chaka. All the negative stories about her campaign have been proved to be groundless and the final count is decisive. Her first priority is likely to concern the long-running border dispute with Congo Libre which led to the tragic confrontation at Lac Dudo last year.’

  There was a gentle tapping at the door and Richard crossed to open it and accept a tray laden with the coffee and tea he had ordered and turned back.

  ‘… associated story,’ the anchorwoman was saying as he slid the tray on to the bedside table nearest Robin and let the scent of English Breakfast tea work its magic on her. He straightened with his cafetière in one hand and his coffee cup in the other, listening as he poured. ‘The Russian consortium Bashnev/Sevmash is continuing with its assessment of the bed of Lac Dudo, in spite of the upheavals at head office resulting from the death of its co-founder Mr Maximilian Asov, ex-CEO of Bashnev Oil and Power. Initial estimates of the worth of the coltan in the discovery now seem to have been inflated, but a spokesman for the consortium has informed our Moscow correspondent that the new government in Benin La Bas is fully committed to continuing the project with them. The Bashnev/Sevmash share price as quoted on the Moscow and London stock exchanges remains at an all-time high.’ Richard sipped his coffee as Felix Makarov’s face filled the screen.

  ‘What’s the time?’ asked Robin sleepily.

  ‘It’s gone eight,’ he said. ‘Felix will be outside in just under two hours.’

  ‘Oh my GOD! Why didn’t you tell me, you bloody man?’

  10.15 a.m.

  Felix was waiting outside the Kempinski at ten in one of Bashnev/Sevmash’s St Petersburg fleet of Bentleys. ‘This is a bit excessive,’ observed Robin. ‘We could walk. What is it? Five hundred metres?’

  ‘My dear girl,’ said Felix, ‘nobody walks. Nobody who is anybody. Certainly not today!’ He reached into a capacious briefcase as they climbed in and handed them their ID badges. Like everyone else attending Max’s memorial, they would only be allowed into the church if their lapels announced clearly who they were.

  Robin settled into moody silence, fiddling with the pin on the ID badge she did not want to push through the cashmere of her outfit, still flustered from having to get ready in what she considered to be a brutally short time. Though the effect, thought her indulgent husband, could hardly have been bettered, even though black was not really her colour. ‘You looked good on television this morning,’ he said to Felix, looking up from his own badge. ‘Talking to the BBC.’

  ‘I’ll have to talk to more than the BBC, and you know it,’ rumbled Felix. ‘I’m booked on the first flight to Granville Harbour tomorrow. Even so, I’ll be well behind Han Wuhan. Doctor Chen is going himself, hoping the president will succumb to a Chinese charm offensive.’ He too lapsed into silence.

  The radio on the car was tuned to Voice of Russia news. The report filled the confines of the passenger compartment. ‘The sudden death of Fydor Novotkin, millionaire music producer and ex-guitarist with Simian Artillery, has thrown the music business into turmoil, as our reporter Ludmilla Sokolova explains.’ The voices changed. ‘It’s as though Simon Cowell had died unexpectedly,’ breathed excitedly tones. ‘Fydor Novotkin was discovered in his suite at the Petrovka hotel. He apparently died of an overdose …’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Richard.

  ‘You think so?’ asked Felix and Richard couldn’t tell whether the Russian’s mind had been elsewhere or whether he just knew a lot more than he was saying. Richard frowned, his mind racing. Robin hadn’t reacted at all. She really was lost in thought. And her Russian wasn’t quite as fluent as Richard’s.

  ‘And in international news,’ the radio continued to whisper, as the first voice resumed control. ‘Funke Odem, self-styled colonel of the Army of Christ the Infant, appeared before the World Court in the Hague yesterday. Colonel Odem is accused of crimes against humanity including rape, torture, mutilation and murder. He is accused of using black magic rituals, sex trafficking, employing child soldiers and attempting to invade the sovereign state of Benin La Bas, whose new president, Celine Chaka, has already said she will be giving evidence against him in person. Colonel Odem has been compared with the notorious Joseph Kony, leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army who was famously the subject of a viral video in 2012.’

  11.00 a.m.

  It took the Mulsane the better part of half
an hour to ease its way through the traffic down Moika Embankment, along Nevsky Prospekt and back up Griboyedova Embankment to The Church of our Saviour on the Spilled Blood, even though, as Robin observed, it would have been easier and quicker to walk. But at last the limousine whispered to a halt outside 2A, Kanal Griboyedova and the three passengers in the back were able to climb out. Richard looked up at the dazzling frontage, wrestling with the irony that had Max Asov laid out on the spot where Tsar Alexander II had been assassinated by guerrillas rather than gorillas – and with a bomb, not a gun.

  The roadway was packed with congregation moving under the golden awning into the side of the beautiful building. As well as the mourners with their ID badges, there were hoards of well-wishers, onlookers, tourists and TV crews. It was a considerable crowd and Richard could see why. Max had been a social animal and a big beast in all sorts of jungles other than the one he had died in. The sober-suited men were world-class politicians, business leaders, media and sporting personalities. The women in beautifully fashioned mourning were film stars, TV stars and models. Almost all of them were young and breathtaking – many of them ex-girlfriends of the man who was desperately trying to replace his dead son. Richard saw the lovely Irina Lavrov in the crush, star of one of the most popular and long-running Russian TV shows – and now a considerable film star on the international stage – the next Milla Jovovich, perhaps. Beside her was Tatiana Kalina, the last of the late mogul’s girlfriends. All of the mourners were worth looking at – independently of the fact that the fairy-tale church was St Petersburg’s most popular tourist attraction after the Hermitage. All well worth interviewing.

  Or, it seemed, they were until Felix and the Mariners arrived. Then the TV crews gathered round the three of them with an eagerness that bordered on frenzy. Richard was the first to feel the camera lights on him as he was asked to retell the story of Max’s last few hours and how he had found the body. His version was nothing less than the truth, but it glossed over certain elements, playing down his own role and emphasizing Max’s, Ivan’s and Anastasia’s. It was a version of events agreed between the survivors in the days after the Battle of Black Lake as it became popularly known. In this version, Max died heroically pursuing the traitor Bala Ngama on behalf of the peoples of Benin La Bas. Ivan and Anastasia had done much the same with Colonel Odem. And the destruction of the dam, the road, and the invading army from Congo Libre with their Chinese associates, were all part of a quick-thinking reaction to the crisis on the part of Colonel Laurent Kebila, the president’s chief of staff. Coupled with the repetition of a natural disaster similar to the one that wiped out half the population of Cite La Bas just after the turn of the millennium.