by Peter Rimmer
The rains in Zaire would not be over for another month, and the quartet went into immediate training under the supervision of the Rhodesian SAS. During the sea voyage through the Suez Canal and down the east coast of Africa, Matt had watched his diet and worked out his nearly two-metre frame in the ship’s gymnasium for five hours a day. The expedition demanded that he be in superb health and physical fitness. Archie’s old leg wound had healed completely.
In mid-May the aircraft took off again from Salisbury airport having been repainted in camouflage green and fitted with long-range fuel tanks that would take the aircraft round hostile Zambia to Luanda in the Portuguese colony of Angola, flight plans having been filed by RUAC. At Luanda, the King Air and armed Baron were left behind, and Matt and Archie flew with the senior pilot northeast across the neck of Angola into the still strife-torn ex-Belgian Congo that was under the military rule of General Mobutu. Following the mighty Congo River, they turned east at Kwamouth and followed the Sankuru River, flying fifteen metres above the tallest trees that clustered close to the water. The rains had been strong and the river was running fast, but they found what they were looking for without incident and flew back to Luanda on a direct flight plan over the Central African jungle.
The following day, with the help of the Portuguese air force who were fighting a three-pronged guerrilla war against the FNLA in the north of Angola, the Marxist MPLA in the centre and UNITA in the south, the two Barons were taken by road transport to the dam that supplied the city with fresh water. Within two days, the aircraft were converted to seaplanes, riding high on long floats that reached the nose and tail of the aircraft. After successful test flights, Matt was satisfied.
“We’ll go in at first light.”
Dawn on the dam was violently shattered by four powerful engines, sending a flock of flamingos away from the rising sun that was reflected in the mirror calm water. Crocodiles slid into the water as the two Beechcraft Barons taxied down the lake, high on their new floats, and turned into the gentle wind for take-off. Matt, Archie, Lucky and Aldo were dressed in camouflage flak-jackets with lightweight South African army boots on their feet.
The aircraft climbed to two thousand metres and flew over the four- hundred-year-old Portuguese colony, passing well laid out coffee plantations at regular intervals. Angola was a major world exporter of coffee beans, the estates being owned and run by the Portuguese, who had lived in Angola for four generations. There was no sign of the FNLA guerrillas, but they crossed two heavily guarded transport columns, the pilots tipping their wings in salute. Nearing the Zairean border, the aircraft dropped to treetop height again, following the Congo and Sankuru rivers to the point in the latter selected by Matt for landing. The river had been divided by a long island and the pilots touched the water in the calm of an oxbow lake. They waited for five minutes with the engines idling, but nothing happened.
With the engines silent, they remained near the aircraft for the rest of the day, landing their equipment through the swamp that came down to the water’s edge. They camped under mosquito nets on a ridge from which they could see the river. Their arc of fire was thirty degrees and, when the dusk faded to the dark of night, Matt was unable to see the end of his outstretched arm.
The jungle was alive with the sound of insects and birds, and Aldo twice heard the cough of the leopard and once, quite a distance away, the roar of a male lion. He would have been happier with a fire, but the ex-Belgian Congo was still controlled by heavily armed bandits, warlords who were left alone by the central government in Kinshasa. Anarchy ruled. They were ninety kilometres from the coffee plantation and the abandoned house, Matt having circled the now derelict building on his reconnaissance. The two ex-mercenaries from Hoare’s Fifth Commando slept through the night; Aldo and Matt did not. On the aircraft moored close to the river island, the pilots slept badly, cradling FN rifles on their laps.
Archie, with Matt, Aldo and Lucky following him, led the way as they rose with the dawn, cutting their way through the jungle. They were each carrying twenty-seven kilograms of equipment and FN automatic rifles. They covered thirteen kilometres on the first day and camped deep in the jungle, exhausted.
“How did you walk with a wounded leg?” Matt asked Archie.
“Fear, Matt.”
Again they made no fire, eating cold food and chewing biltong, the dried meat of the Boers. Matt, exhausted from taking the last front position with the panga, slept through the night.
Each day the pace increased. At the end of the week, they were unable to find the house, having passed the compass fix that Matt had verified from the air. Breaking radio silence, Matt called the aircraft, still anchored in the Sankuru River.
“Can’t find the bloody house,” he told the pilot. “You guys okay?”
“Bored. We’re camped on the island.”
“The trees and creepers are too thick. You’ll have to come over and guide us in. Drop a flare. Talk to you overhead.”
With the help of the aircraft, they found the house that afternoon. The buildings had deteriorated badly, with thick creepers pushing down the walls, but most of the roof was still in place, although covered by the encroaching jungle.
“No one’s been anywhere near the place,” said Lucky, leading them into the room where he and Archie had found the dying Belgian. The paintings were exactly where they had left them. Within ten minutes, Archie had recovered the coins and the key to the safe, all of which he had buried next to the mausoleum. There were sixteen paintings, eight per pair, and before the light had gone the large frames had been hung on the slings made especially for the job in Johannesburg.
That night, they lay down in the old house next to their treasure, but nobody slept. They were all too close to their dream. The flare had attracted no attention.
Matt rose in the middle of the night. “Let’s get out of here. No one’s sleeping. Sling the paintings between the poles and use your torch.”
At two in the morning, they walked back into the jungle, waking a troop of vervet monkeys that came screeching down from the branch of a tree. The adrenalin in all four men was screaming.
Three days later, the aircraft returned to Rand airport and underwent conversion to civilian use, the floats having been detached from the Barons in Luanda, along with the machine gun. Matthew began his discussion with carefully selected legal practices in Johannesburg, meeting the senior partner of each firm at the lawyer’s home, away from the eyes of the public.
They had returned with everything they went for: the coins and pictures had been taken into a customs bonded warehouse awaiting transport to Europe, and the yellow diamonds escorted from the airport by de Beers security guards. The following day, de Beers deposited an amount of 3.4 million Rand in Matthew’s bank account at Rissik Street, equal to twenty per cent of the wholesale value of the gems. It was exactly half of what de Beers would have paid the Belgian for his diamonds, the second half being kept in a trust account by de Beers at Matthew’s request. The same day, lawyers in Belgium, Holland and France were instructed to send registered letters to the thirty-seven living relatives of the Belgium planter.
The party at the newly-acquired smallholding at Halfway House had caused the only wound of the operation, Lucky cutting his head while trying to leap from a closed car without using the door. Sunny had treated the head wound in a fit of giggles, also aggravated by the Maharajah Chotapegs, a drink concocted with a cube of sugar drenched in pink angostura bitters, washed down with best Cape brandy and the glass filled to the top with a sparkling wine.
Archie Fletcher-Wood had taken to singing Irish songs at the end of the bar in the sun room that opened on to the long stoep and the swimming pool. At the end, Aldo Calucci could, it seemed, now speak only Italian, though the girl he was talking to with such emphasis did not appear to mind, as she was also drunk and sentimental. The party was a great success. Matthew and Sunny had never been happier in their lives.
On the fourth day after the men’s return f
rom the jungle, buy orders were given to eleven stockbrokers by different firms of lawyers to purchase ordinary shares in Security Holdings, the pyramid company created by David Todd to protect his controlling interest in Security Life and Security Fire and Accident, which in turn owned Gray Associates. The shareholding chart locked in Matthew’s safe gave a total breakdown of David Todd’s shareholdings, property investments and cash reserves. All the shares bought by Matthew’s lawyers were registered in nominee names, and not even a whiff of the operation reached David Todd.
Seven days after returning to South Africa, Matthew again left Sunny alone in their new home and flew to Amsterdam to address the relatives of the man buried by Lucky and Archie deep in the African jungle. Simultaneous translation into Dutch, French and Flemish had been arranged by the Dutch legal firm when Matthew stood to thank everyone for coming to the meeting. By the time he had finished explaining the reason for his visit, the lawyer’s large room was reduced to chaos, all thirty-seven relatives refusing to accept Matthew’s offer of ten per cent of the realised value of all assets, subject to legal ownership of the coins and paintings being granted to Matthew Gray, a prerequisite for selling the items at an auction. Without authentication, Matthew’s spoils were worth less than ten per cent of their true value.
When the shouting subsided and Matthew had registered the mood of ungrateful people who a week earlier knew nothing about coins, diamonds or paintings, he stood up again to talk to the wall of righteous indignation. “No problem,” he smiled, packing the photographs they had taken of the Belgian’s house and paintings back into his briefcase and snapping it shut, “I will return everything from whence it came, and you kind people can go and get it back yourselves. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Have a nice day.”
By two-thirty that afternoon, thirty-seven affidavits had been signed and notarised, transferring ownership to Matthew Gray, and were delivered to his hotel, from which Matt had been watching the barges and people on the neighbouring canal for two unhurried hours. Neither then nor in the future did a single one of the relatives thank him for risking his life for their new-found wealth.
The following day, the paintings and coins arrived at Heathrow airport, London, and were met by Matthew and an art dealer who specialised in Dutch masters. The dealer would supervise the sale of the paintings at Sotherby’s, the proceeds of which were to follow the gold Kruger coins into a discretionary trust account of an international firm of accountants on the Channel Island of Jersey. By the time Matthew had finished realising the assets, neither customs duty, inheritance tax nor income tax were paid to any government and the funds were free from exchange control. In one sense he made the money disappear, as at no time was the money or the shares in Security Holdings registered in his, Archie’s or Lucky’s name. Even the trust company in Jersey was instructed to hold the security shares in the names of nominees.
Soon after the art dealer, selected by Matthew on his previous visit to London, had sold the first painting for its true market price, buy orders were placed by the trust company to purchase Security Holdings shares on the London stock exchange. David Todd had listed his company on the London exchange some years earlier to provide him with sterling funds to expand into the United Kingdom market. Even more quietly, the Kruger coins were offered to the world’s coin collectors in small parcels. Matthew, unable to re-enter the insurance market in South Africa for another three and a half years, was in no hurry. There was also the need to purchase the Security Holdings shares gradually over a period of time, for fear of pushing up the price.
Before flying back to South Africa, Matthew again followed up the leads given to him by Sunny, but failed to locate Luke Mbeki or anyone who even knew his name. At one point he was told to bugger off and mind his own business, which told him something. Luke, his twin, was no longer available to Matthew Gray.
Sitting in his room at the Savoy Hotel, pondering his final rejection, Matthew received a phone call from reception, saying that a man wished to see him downstairs. Matt hurried to the lift, excited at the prospect of seeing Luke again. They would go out and visit all their old jazz clubs, and talk till the sun came up. Matt’s heart was full of happiness; now he knew friendship transcended politics and race.
When he reached reception, there was no tall black man smiling a big welcome, and Matt looked at Hector Fortescue-Smythe in shock and dismay. Then he recovered and put out his hand.
“Matthew. Sorry about not giving a name. Mother gave me a ring… Is there anything wrong? When you first…”
“Hello, Hector. No, nothing wrong. Disappointment which has nothing to do with you, I am afraid. I thought it was Luke.”
“Luke?” Hector kept any surprise from his expression, though his stomach gave a sharp jolt. He had seen Luke Mbeki in the strictest of confidence the previous day.
“Luke Mbeki. We were born in Port St Johns on the same day. I must have talked about him… How long are you in London? Of course, you must be here to take over joint control of the family firm.”
“Not really… May we go up to your room?”
“I’m sorry I pried into your business, Hector, but when I spoke to your mother…”
“Mother liked you Matt. I want to explain.”
“Come on up. Damn! I was so looking forward to seeing Luke.”
Hector gave his warmest smile, confident again. “I am sorry to be so disappointing.”
Matt went up in the lift in silence, sure that the conversation was going to be embarrassing. He should have ignored the Cambridge don’s request to do a good deed. People never thank anyone for doing them a favour.
“You want a drink, Hector?” he invited, in the room. There was a private, well-stocked bar in every suite at the Savoy.
“Whisky, no water.”
“There was some Dimple Haig here last night.”
“You here on business.”
“Oh, yes… How does that look? Hector, I’m very sorry. I should not have gone to see your mother. You and Helena…”
“Cheers, Matt.”
“Your good health.” Matt was squirming.
“You didn’t have an affair with Helena, though, did you?” asked Hector.
“No. No, you have my word.”
“Relax. I know. I’m not so bloody stupid not to know my wife is screwing around… You ever had a woman who really, but really, turned you on?”
“Yes.” Matt immediately had a picture of Sandy de Freitas, and smelt the pungent scent of joss sticks.
“The fact is, it turns me on even more. I think we’re all a bit kinky, but some more than others. I always know when she’s had it during the day. Some of the swelling is still there… Does this shock you?”
“No,” said Matt, swallowing his own whisky, to which he had added ice and water. “I mean, what you do in private… If the sex is good…”
“Oh, it’s very good. Which is why everyone, including you thinks I don’t know what’s going on. We’ll probably grow out of our lusts.”
“Does her family know? Look, I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with me.”
“They knew about Helena’s insatiable sex life well before I did. You see, at least I give her some respectability. They are very grateful. We’re not having children just yet. I mean, who on earth would know who was the father?” He gave a hollow chuckle. “I wouldn’t like to bring up someone else’s kid. And then there’s the family millions. Oh, and by the way; whatever my old tutor pushed into your ears, I am not a communist. We all flirted with great ideals at Cambridge, and then we grew up to the realities of the world. I went to South Africa to get away from my inheritance. You as a self-made man should see my problem. Life must be a challenge for me. And for you too, I suspect.
“Inheriting millions is boring. You are merely a custodian of someone else’s property. It doesn’t belong to you because you did not make it yourself. There’s far more fun getting somewhere in this world than arriving. My work with Armscor challenges my mind to its lim
its. Yes, and I know what you said to mother, that what we work on has already been produced in Russia or America. But are you sure? I don’t know American secrets, so what we develop is new, mint, the first in man’s history so far as I am concerned. The excitement and sense of achievement is just the same. Now being joint CEO of Smythe-Wilberforce would keep me well out of the R and D and leave the fun to the real scientists.
“I am over here to look for a man who will receive my power of attorney to act on my behalf as joint CEO. My lawyers say such a move is incontestable in terms of great-grandfather’s will. And if Helena does decide to settle down and have my children, they can make their own decisions about money and running the old firm. Maybe you would like the job, Matt?”
“No, not me, I’ve enough on my plate.”
“You see what I mean. Even you are unwilling to take over someone else’s company.” Matt remained silent. “Mother wouldn’t say what you wanted the money for, but it can probably be arranged. You made a big impression on mother.”
“I don’t think I need the money after all. But thank you, Hector. And for not wanting to punch me on the nose.”
“Don’t be silly. I could never even reach.” They both laughed, and ten minutes later Hector left the Savoy and took a taxi to another part of London. He was smiling in the back of the taxi, and wondering idly how many men his wife had screwed while he was away.
At Ealing Broadway, Hector dismissed the taxi and took the tube to the next station, where he hailed a second taxi, arriving at his destination an hour after leaving Matthew’s room at the Savoy Hotel.
The meeting was in the basement of an old Victorian house that had seen better days. The room smelt damp under the fog of cigarette smoke and the ripe smell of bodies that had not seen sufficient soap and water. Hector refrained from wrinkling his nose and took his place at the table. The meeting had been called by the South African Communist Party, with Hector in the chair.