Wilbur Smith - Gold Mine

by Gold Mine(Lit)

  rod dropped straight down to 100 level. his first duty was to get the stuff out, and he wanted to check the reserve in the ore storage bins.

  he came into the long brightly-lit tunnel beneath the ore passes, and paused. the loaded conveyor belt whined monotonously, speeding the broken reef towards the bins.

  the tunnel was deserted, except for the lonely figure of the sweeper at the far end. it was one of the phenomena of a well-run gold mine that in a tour through the workings you encountered so few human beings.

  mile after mile of haulage and drive were silent and devoid of life, and yet there were 12,000 men down here.

  rod set off towards the bins at the shaft end of the tunnel.

  "joseph," he greeted the old sweeper with a smile.

  "nkosi. "joseph ducked and bobbed with shy pleasure.

  "all is well?" rod asked. joseph was one of rod's favourites, he was always so cheerful, so uncomplaining, so patently honest and without guile. rod always made a point of stopping to chat to him.

  "it is well with me, nkosi. is it well with you?" rod's smile died suddenly, he had noticed the fine white powdering of dust on joseph's upper lip.

  "you old rogue!" he scolded him. "how often must i tell you to hose down before you sweep? water! you must use water!" this was part of the ceaseless battle of the miner to keep down the dust.

  "the dust will eat your lungs!" phthisis, the dread incurable occupational disease of the miner, caused by silica particles being drawn into the lungs and there solidifying.

  joseph grinned shamefaced, shifting from one foot to the other.

  he was always embarrassed by rod's childish obsession with dust. in joseph's opinion this was one of the few flaws in rod ironsides" character. apart from this weird delusion that dust could hurt a man, he was a good boss.

  "it is much harder to sweep wet dirt than dry dirt," joseph explained patiently. rod never seemed to understand this self-evident fact, joseph had to point it out to him every time they had this particular discussion.

  "listen to me, old man, without water the dust will enter your body."

  rod was exasperated. "the dust will kill you!" joseph bobbed again, grinning at rod to placate him.

  "very well, i will use plenty water." to prove it he picked up the hose and began spraying the floor with enthusiasm.

  "that is good!" rod encouraged him. "use plenty of water. "and rod went on down to the storage bins.

  when rod was out of sight, joseph turned off the hose and leaned on his broom.

  "the dust will kill you!" he mimicked rod, and chuckled merrily, shaking his head in wonder at the childishness of it.

  "the dust will kill you!" he repeated, and burst into delighted laughter, slapping his thigh.

  he did a few shuffling dance steps, it was so funny.

  the dance steps were awkward, for under his trousers, strapped to the calves of both legs, were heavy polythene bags filled with gold linea-from under the bins.

  rod stepped out of the mary anne at 85 level, and paused to watch big king loading a baulk of timber onto the loco while his transport team stood back respectfully and watched him. turning from his task big king saw rod standing on the station landing and marched up to him.

  "i see you," he greeted rod. big king was not one to make hasty judgements, it was only after the rescue operations in 43 section that he had decided rod was a man.

  he was now ready to accept him as an equal.

  "i see you also, king nkulu." rod returned the greeting.

  "find me work with men. i sicken of this."

  "you will be back in the stopes before the week is ended," rod promised.

  "you are my father," big king thanked him and went back to the transport team.

  Johnny delange saw the underground manager coming up the haulage towards him. there was no mistaking that tall wide-shouldered silhouette, nor the man's free swinging stride.

  "whee!" Johnny whistled with relief, grateful for the premonition that had warned him to pack the fifty-pound cardboard cartons of dynagel into the explosives locker of the railway truck, rather than, as he usually did, pile them haphazard onto the platform in defiance of safety standards.

  "stop!" Johnny commanded the boss boy and his assistant who were pushing the truck, and it trundled to a halt beside rod.

  "morning, Johnny."

  "hello, mr. ironsides."

  "how's it going?" Johnny hesitated before replying, and immediately rod was aware of the tension between the three men. he glanced at the two swazis, they were sullen and apprehensive.

  "there's been trouble," he thought. "not like Johnny, he's too clever to let tension cut down his fat homage "well-" Johnny paused again. "look, mr. ironsides, get rid of this bastard for me." he jerked his thumb at the boss boy. "give me someone else."

  "what's the trouble?"

  "no trouble, i just can't work with him. rod raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but turned to the boss boy.

  "are you happy in this section, or do you want transfer?"

  "i want transfer!" growled the boss boy.

  "right." rod was relieved, sometimes in a case like this the swazi would refuse transfer. "tomorrow you will be told your new section."

  "nkosi!" the boss boy glanced sideways at his assistant.

  "it is the wish of my friend that he transfers with me." so that's it, rod thought, the ever-present spectre which we must ignore because we can find no way to lay it. Johnny had probably caught them at it.

  "your friend shall go with you," rod nodded, telling himself that this was not condonation, but merely practical politics. if he separated them, the boss boy would pick on someone else who might not be receptive. then there would be more trouble, stabbings, faction fighting.

  "i'll get you a replacement, he told Johnny, and then suddenly a thought occurred to him. my god, yes! what a team they would make!

  "Johnny, how would you like big king?"

  "big king!" Johnny's gaunt bony features split into a wide smile. "now you're talking, boss!" at three o'clock rod had finished his tour and was in the cage on the way to the surface. the cage was crowded, men pressed shoulder to shoulder, the stench of sweat almost overpowering.

  they were hauling shift now, the day's work was over, the stopes were scraped and washed down, the shot holes drilled and charged, the fuses connected into the electrical circuit.

  the men were out of the stopes now, falling back in orderly companies and battalions along the wall to the stations. there to wait patiently for their turn to enter the cages and be whisked to the surface.

  rod was mulling over the myriad problems he had encountered during the day, and the solutions he had dreamed up. he had opened a new section in the back pages of his notebook and headed it simply "costs'.

  already there were two entries there. let them give me the job, he thought fervently, just let me have it one month and i'll move the world.

  "mr. ironsides." the man beside him spoke. rod glanced down at him recognizing him.

  "hello, davy." it was remarkable how dissimilar the two brothers were.

  "mr. ironsides, my boss boy has worked his ticket. he's going home at the end of the month. can you see that i get a good man to replace him?"

  "your brother's boss boy has asked for transfer. will you take him?"

  "ja!" davy delange nodded. "i know him, he's a good boy." and that takes care of one more detail, thought rod, as he stepped out of the cage into a bright summer's afternoon and tasted the fresh sweet air with pleasure. now there are only the butt ends of the day's work to tidy up. then i can go and fetch the drink that dan promised me.

  dimitri met him in the passage outside the office.

  "i've got kowalski in my office." "good," said rod grimly. he went into his own office and sat on the edge of his desk.

  "send him in," he called through to dimitri.

  kowalski came through the door and stopped. he stood very still, his long arms hanging slackly at his side, his belly bul
ging out over his belt.

  "you call me," he muttered thickly, his english hardly intelligible. it was a peasant's face, coarse-featured, dull eyed he had not shaved, dirt from the stopes clung in the thick black stubble of beard.

  "you beat a man today? "rod asked softly.

  "he no work, kowalski nodded. "i beat him. maybe next time his brothers they work. no bloody nonsense!"

  "you're fired," said rod.

  "pull your time and get the hell off this property."

  "you fire?"

  kowalski blinked in surprise.

  "there will be criminal charges pressed against you by the company." rod went on. "but in the meantime i want you off the property."

  "police?" kowalski growled. there was expression on his face now.

  "yes," said rod, "police. the spade-sized hands at the end of kowalski's arms balled slowly into massive fists.

  "you call da bloody police!" he took a step towards the desk, big, menacing.

  "dimitri," rod called sharply, "close the door." dimitri had been listening intently, now he jumped up from his desk and closed the inter leading door. he stood with his ear pressed to the panelling.

  for thirty seconds more there was the growl and mutter of voices, then suddenly a thud, a bellow, another thud and a shattering crash.

  dimitri winced theatrically.

  "dimitri!" rod's voice, and he pushed the door open.

  rod sat on the edge of his desk, swinging one leg casually, he was sucking the knuckle of his right hand.

  "dimitri, tell them not to put so much polish on the floor. our friend slipped and hit his jaw on the desk." dimitri clucked sympathetically as he stood over the reclining hulk of the big pole.

  kowalski was snoring loudly through his mouth.

  "gave himself a nasty bump," said dimitri. "shame!" doctor steyner worked on quietly for the remainder of monday morning. he favoured the use of a tape recorder, for this cut out human contact which manfred found vaguely repellent. he disliked having to speak his thoughts to a female who sat opposite him with skirts up around her thighs, squirming her bottom and touching her hair. however, what he really could not abide was the odour. manfred was very sensitive to smells, even his own body smell of perspiration disgusted him. women, he found, had a peculiar cloying odour that he could detect beneath their perfume and cosmetics. it nauseated him.

  this was why he had insisted on separate bedrooms for theresa and himself. naturally he had not told her the reason, but had insisted instead that he was such a light sleeper that he could not share a room with another person.

  his office was in white and ice-blue, the air clean and cold from the air-conditioning unit, his voice was crisp and impersonal, the whiff of the recorder subdued, and with the conscious portion of his mind manfred was happily absorbed in his conjuring tricks with figures and money, past performance and future estimates, a three-dimensional structure of variables and contingencies which only a super-normal brain could visualize. but beneath it was a sense of disquiet; he was waiting, hanging in time, and the outward sign of his agitation was the way the fingers of his right hand ran up and down his thigh as he worked, a caressing narcissistic gesture.

  a few minutes before noon the unlisted direct telephone on his desk rang, and the movement of his hand stilled.

  only one caller could reach him here, only one caller had that number.

  for a few seconds he sat unmoving, delaying the moment, then deliberately he switched off the recorder and lifted the telephone.

  "doctor manfred steyner." he identified himself.

  "you have got our man in?" the voice enquired.

  "not yet, andrew." there was silence from the other end, a dangerous crackling silence.

  "but there is no cause for alarm. it is nothing. a delay merely, not a setback."

  "how long?"

  "two days at the latest by the end of the week."

  "you will be in paris next week?"

  "yes." manfred was an adviser to the government team which was to meet the french for gold price talks.

  "he will meet you there. it would be best for you that your side of the bargain were completed by then. you understand?" understand, andrew." the discussion was ended, but manfred interjected to prevent the caller from hanging up.

  "andrew!"

  "yes."

  "will you ask him if-" manfred's tone had changed almost imperceptibly, there was an obsequious edge in it.

  "ask him if i may play tonight, please, andrew."

  "wait." the minutes drifted by, and then the voice came back on the line.

  "yes, you may play. simon will inform you of your limits."

  "thank you. tell him, thank you." manfred made no effort to conceal his relief as he cradled the receiver. he sat beaming at the ice-blue paper on the far wall of his office, even his spectacles seemed to sparkle.

  there were five men in the opulently furnished room. one of the men was subservient to the others, he was younger than they, attentive to their moods and wishes. clearly he was a servant. of the remaining four, one was just as obviously the host. he was seated at the focus of all their attention. he was fat, but not excessively so, the fat of good living not of gluttony.

  he was speaking, addressing himself to his three guests.

  "you have expressed doubts as to the reliability of the tool i intend using in the coming venture. i have arranged a demonstration which i hope will convince you that your concern is groundless. that is the reason for the invitation that andrew here conveyed to you this afternoon." the host turned to the younger man. "andrew, would you be good enough to go through and wait for doctor steyner to arrive; as soon as that happens, please let simon seat him while you come through and inform us." he gave his orders with dignity and courtesy, a man accustomed to command.

  "now, gentlemen, while we wait may i offer you a drink?"

  the conversation that sprang up between the four of them as they sipped their drinks was knowledgeable, and extraordinarily well informed. at its root was one subject: wealth. mineral wealth, industrial wealth, the harvest of the land and the sea. oil, steel, coal, fish, wheat and gold.

  there were clues to the stature of these men in the cut and quality of the cloth they wore, the sparkle of a stone on a finger, the tone of authority in a voice, the casual unaffected use of a high name.

  "he is here, sir," andrew interrupted them from the doorway.

  "oh! thank you, my boy." the host stood up. "would you mind stepping this way, please, gentlemen." he crossed the room and drew aside one of the gold and maroon drapes. behind it was a window.

  the four men clustered about the window and looked through into the room beyond. it was a gaming room of an expensive gambling establishment. there were men and women sitting about a baccarat table, and none of them so much as glanced up at the window overlooking them.

  "this is a one-way glass, gentlemen," the host explained.

  "so you need not worry about being seen in such a den of iniquity."

  they chuckled politely.

  "what kind of profit does this place show you?" one of them asked.

  "my dear robert!" the host feigned shock. "you don't for a moment believe that i would be in any way associated with an illegal undertaking?" this time they chuckled with genuine amusement.

  "have exclaimed the host. "here he is." across the gaming room doctor manfred steyner was being ushered to a seat at the table by a tall sallow-faced young man, who in his evening dress looked like an undertaker.

  "i have asked simon to place him so that you may watch his face as he plays." they were intent now, leaning forward slightly, scrutinizing the man as he arranged the plaques that simon had stacked at his elbow.

  doctor manfred steyner began to play. his face was completely devoid of expression, but the pallor was startling.

  every few seconds the pink tip of his tongue slipped out between his lips, then disappeared again. in the intervals between each coup, there was a reptilian still
ness about him, the stillness of a lizard or an iguana. only a pulse beat steadily in his throat and his spectacles glittered like a snake's eyes.

  "may i direct your attention to his right hand during the play of this coup," the host murmured, and all their eyes flicked downwards.

  manfred's right hand lay open beside the pile of his chips, but as his card was laid before him so his fingers closed.