by Wilbur Smith
Mr Goolam Vilabjhi Esquire.
Behind the glass of the frame were pasted a number of the Englishlanguage newspaper clippings originating from American Associated Press.
‘My family and I are very much hoping and praying that you will sign one of these splendid publications to be the jewel in the crown of my collection of cherished memorabilia of our friendship.’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Mr Vilabjhi.’ Despite himself Leon was deeply touched. The Vilabjhi girls crowded around him as he signed a photograph of himself: ‘To my good friend and benefactor, Mr Goolam Vilabjhi Esq. Sincerely, Leon Courtney.’
Blowing on the damp ink, Mr Vilabjhi assured him, ‘I will treasure this personally handwritten autograph for the rest of my days and as long as I shall live.’ Then he sighed. ‘I suppose that now you wish to speak about redeeming your genuine elephant ivory tusk, which I still have in my possession.’
When Manyoro and Loikot carried the tusk out to the truck Leon followed them with small girls hanging from both his hands and others firmly clutching the legs of his khaki trousers. Only with difficulty was he able to dislodge them and climb into the driver’s seat. He drove on to the new Muthaiga Country Club, whose pinkpainted brick and plaster walls had replaced the old Settlers’ Club’s whitewashed mud-daub on a site far beyond the teeming bustle of Main Street.
His uncle Penrod was waiting for him in the members’ bar. The first thing Leon noticed as the colonel rose to greet him was that he had put on a bit more flesh, especially around the belt. Since their last meeting more than a year ago Penrod had moved up from the category of well covered to distinctly portly. There was also a little more grey in his moustache. As soon as they had shaken hands Penrod suggested, ‘Shall we go to lunch? Today Chefie’s serving steak and kidney pie. It’s one of my favourites. I don’t want the riffraff to get at it ahead of me. We can talk as we eat.’ He led Leon to a table on the terrace under the pergola of purple bougainvillaea, set discreetly out of earshot of other diners. As he tucked the white napkin into the front of his collar Penrod asked, ‘I suppose Percy’s shown you the articles written by that Yankee Andrew Fagan, and the letters from prominent people that they have evoked?’
‘Yes, I have them, sir,’ Leon replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I found them rather embarrassing. People seem to be making such an awful fuss. I’m certainly not the greatest hunter in Africa. That was Kermit Roosevelt’s idea of a joke, which Fagan took seriously. Actually I’m still a greenhorn.’
‘Never admit it, Leon. Let them think what they want to. Anyway, from what I hear, you’re learning fast.’ Penrod smiled comfortably. ‘As a matter of fact, I had a small hand in the whole subterfuge. Rather neat, I thought, little stroke of genius.’
‘How are you involved, Uncle?’ Leon was startled.
‘I was in London when the first articles appeared. They gave me a bit of a brainwave. I cabled the military attaché at our embassy in Berlin and asked him to tout the articles to the German press, especially the sporting and hunting publications that are read by the upper crust. It’s a stereotype that most of that type of German, like their English counterparts, are enthusiastic sportsmen and have their own hunting estates. My plan was to lure the notables among them here to go on safari with you. This will give you the opportunity to gather all kinds of intelligence, which will certainly prove invaluable when the time comes that we have to fight them.’
‘Why would they want to confide in me, Uncle?’
‘Leon, my lad, I cannot believe you’re completely unaware of your winning ways. People seem to like you, especially the Fräuleins and the mademoiselles. Safari life, being close to Mother Nature and her creatures, has a way of inducing even the most reticent to relax, lower their guard and speak more freely. Not to mention the way it also loosens the strings of female corsets and drawers. And why would a senior figure in the Kaiser’s Germany, a major arms manufacturer or one of their consorts, suspect a fresh-faced innocent like you of being a nefarious secret agent?’ Penrod lifted a finger in the direction of the head waiter, who hovered nearby in his flowing white ankle-length kanza, scarlet sash and tasselled fez. ‘Malonzi! Please bring us a bottle of the 1879 Château Margaux from my private bin.’
Malonzi returned bearing the lightly dusted claret bottle in whitegloved hands with the reverence it deserved. Penrod watched him go through the solemn ritual of drawing the cork, sniffing it, then decanting the glowing red wine. He poured the first few drops into a crystal glass. Penrod swirled it around and sniffed the bouquet. ‘Perfect! I think you’ll enjoy this, Leon. Count Pillet-Will was awarded the Premier Grand Cru Class Appellation for this particular vintage.’
After Leon had paid respect to the noble claret, Penrod waved for Malonzi to bring on the steaming platters of steak and kidney pie, with a golden crust. Then he fell to with a will, and spoke through a mouthful, ‘I took the liberty of going through your mail, especially that from Germany. I just couldn’t wait to see what fish we had in our net. Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all, Uncle. Please feel free.’
‘I picked out six letters as especially worthy of our attention, then cabled the military attaché at the embassy in Berlin who sent me political appraisals of the selected subjects.’
Leon nodded cautiously.
‘Four are especially important and influential persons in either the social, political or military sphere. They would be privy to all affairs of state and, if not actually members of his council, certainly they are confidants of Kaiser Bill. They will have intimate knowledge of his intentions and preparations regarding the rest of Europe, together with Britain and our empire.’ Leon nodded again, and Penrod went on, ‘I have discussed this with Percy Phillips and told him that you are, over and above all your other responsibilities, a serving officer in British Military Intelligence. He has agreed to co-operate with us in all ways possible.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘The one prospective client we have picked out in preference to the others is the Princess Isabella Madeleine Hoherberg von Preussen von und zu Hohenzollern. She is a cousin of the Kaiser and her husband is Field Marshal Walter Augustus von Hoherberg, of the German High Command.’
Leon looked suitably impressed.
‘By the way, how is your German, Leon?’
‘It was once fair to middling, but is now more than a little rusty, Uncle. I took both German and French at school.’
‘I saw that in your service record. Seems languages were your top subjects. You must have an ear for them. Percy tells me you speak Kiswahili and Maa like a native. But have you had much contact with German-speakers?’
‘I went on a walking tour of the Black Forest during one holiday with groups of other scholars. I met a number of locals with whom I rubbed along rather well. One was a girl called Ulrike.’
‘Best place to learn a language,’ Penrod remarked, ‘under the bedcovers.’
‘We never got around to that, sir, more’s the pity.’
‘I should hope not, well-bred young gentleman like you.’ Penrod smiled. ‘Anyway, you’d better brush up. You’re going to spend a great deal of time in the company of Germans soon, much of which might in fact be under the bedcovers, given the predilections of upper-class Fräuleins. Does this possibility offend your high moral standards?’
‘I shall try to come to terms with it, Uncle.’ Leon could scarcely refrain from smiling.
‘Good man! Never forget that it’s all for King and country.’
‘When duty calls, who are we to forbear?’ Leon asked.
‘Exactly. Couldn’t have phrased it better myself. And fear not, I’ve already found a language tutor for you. His name is Max Rosenthal. He was an engineer at the Meerbach Motor Works in Wieskirche before he came out to German East Africa. For some years after his arrival he ran a hotel in Dar es Salaam. There, he developed an over-intimate relationship with the cognac bottle, which lost him the job. However, he’s only a periodic
drunk. When he’s sober he’s a first-rate worker. I persuaded Percy to employ him to manage your safari camps and to sharpen up your use of the lingo.’
When they parted on the front steps of the club, Penrod took Leon’s arm in a conspiratorial grip and told him seriously, ‘I know you’re new to the business of spying so I offer a word of advice. Write nothing down. Keep no notes of what you observe. Rather, record it all in your head and report it to me when next we meet.’
When Leon met Max Rosenthal at Tandala Camp he proved to be a powerfully built Bavarian, with huge hands and feet and a bluff, jovial manner. Leon liked him on first sight.
‘Greetings.’ They shook hands. ‘We’ll be working together. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other well,’ Leon said.
Max let out a fruity chuckle that shook his belly. ‘Ah, so! You speak a little German. That’s very good.’
‘Not so very good,’ Leon corrected him, ‘but you will help me to improve it.’
Almost immediately Max proved invaluable, a gifted teacher, and a hard, efficient worker, who relieved Leon of much of the mundane work of camp organization and arranging catering supplies. He and Hennie du Rand made a good team of workhorses and freed Leon to learn the organizational and economic skills that the safari business demanded. Leon made it a rule to communicate with Max only in German and, in consequence, as the months passed, his grip on the language strengthened with surprising rapidity.
Lord Eastmont was only weeks away from arriving for his safari when Leon received a cable from Berlin to the effect that the Princess Isabella Madeleine Hoherberg von Preussen von und zu Hohenzollern had decided to come out to Africa on the next sailing of the German liner SS Admiral from Bremerhaven. Her royal duties were such that she could only afford six weeks in Africa before she must return to Germany. She demanded that all be ready for her on her arrival.
This peremptory communication threw Tandala into turmoil. Percy raged through the camp, hindering rather than helping the frantic efforts of Leon and his staff to change the elaborate arrangements already in place for Eastmont. They now had two major safaris to run simultaneously, which they had never attempted previously. In the end the only circumstance that saved the day was that the princess would stay just six weeks, while Lord Eastmont had arranged a four-month adventure. Leon was able to reassure Percy that on the day the princess sailed for Germany he would rush with his staff to assist Percy with the remainder of his expedition.
Accordingly, when the princess arrived in Kilindini lagoon on board the Admiral, Leon went out from the beach in a launch to welcome her. He waited on the deck for almost an hour before she deigned to leave her stateroom. When finally she ascended the companionway to the main deck she was escorted by the ship’s captain and four of his senior officers, all fawning on her obsequiously. The rest of her entourage, including her secretary and two plump, pretty handmaidens, trailed behind her.
The princess cut a striking figure as she stepped into the sunshine. Leon had seen photographs of her but he was still unprepared for her in the flesh. His first impression was of her towering height and her contrastingly lean body. She was almost as tall as him, but he could easily have encircled her waist with his hands. Her bust was boyish and her carriage imperious. Her eye was steely, and as penetrating as a rapier, and her features were hard and as sharp as a whipsaw. She wore a green loden ankle-length riding habit of superb cut. The toes of her boots, which showed under the skirts, glowed with the lustre of expensive leather. Surprisingly she carried a 9mm Luger pistol in a holster on her belt, and a wide-brimmed safari hat in her left hand. Her ash-blonde hair was braided into two thick ropes and looped on top of her head. Leon knew from Penrod that she was fifty-two, but she looked thirty.
‘Your Royal Highness, I am your servant.’
She did not bother to acknowledge his bow but continued to regard him as though he had just let off a particularly obnoxious fart. At last she spoke, her tone icy. ‘You are very young.’
‘Your Royal Highness, this is a regrettable circumstance for which I must apologize. In time I hope to correct it.’
The Princess did not smile. ‘I said you were young. I did not say you were too young.’ She held out her right hand.
When he took it in his he found it as hard and cold as her expression. He kissed the air an inch short of her bony white knuckles. The crêpe of tiny wrinkles across the back tittle-tattled her age.
‘The governor of the territory of British East Africa has placed his private railway coach at your disposal for the journey to Nairobi,’ Leon told her.
‘Ja! This is fitting and anticipated,’ she agreed.
‘His excellency also begs your presence as guest of honour at a special dinner at Government House to be arranged at any time convenient to you, Princess.’
‘I did not come to Africa to eat in the company of junior civil servants. I came here to kill animals. Many animals.’
Leon bowed again. ‘Immediately, ma’am. Does Your Royal Highness have any particular preference for the animals she wishes to kill?’
‘Lions!’ she answered. ‘And pigs.’
‘How about a few elephants and buffalo?’
‘No! Only big lions and pigs with long tusks.’
Before they set off into the blue, the princess tried out every mount in the string of thoroughbreds that Leon had assembled for her. She rode astride like a man. As Leon watched her appraise the first horse with her disdainful expression, walking around it twice before she swung up gracefully into the saddle and bent the animal to her will, he realized that she was a superb horsewoman. In fact, he had seldom seen another woman who came close to her.
When they rode out from Tandala and were among the game herds, she forgot her original demand for lions and pigs and became a great deal less selective. She had a beautiful little 9.3 × 74 Mannlicher rifle made by Joseph Just of Ferlach, inlaid with gold by Wilhelm Röder with sylvan scenes of fauns and naked nymphs cavorting riotously together. When she bowled over three running Grant’s gazelle at a range of three hundred yards in three consecutive shots without dismounting, Leon decided she was probably the most deadly shot, man or woman, he had ever met.
‘Yes, I want to kill many animals,’ she remarked, as she reloaded the Mannlicher. She was smiling warmly for the first time since she had arrived in Africa.
When he took the princess up Lonsonyo Mountain to meet Lusima, Leon was unprepared for the way the two women reacted instantly to each other. Figuratively, they arched their backs and spat like two cats. ‘M’bogo, this is one with many deep, dark passions. No man will fathom her. She is as deadly as a mamba. She is not the one I promised you. Be on your guard,’ Lusima told Leon.
‘What did the black bitch say?’ the princess demanded. The hostility between the two women crackled in the air like static electricity.
‘That you are a lady of immense power, Princess.’
‘Tell the great cow not to forget that either.’
When it came to the ceremony of blessing the rifles under the council tree, Lusima emerged from her hut in her ceremonial finery, but when she was still ten paces from where the Mannlicher lay on the lionskin she stopped. Her face changed to the colour of dried mud.
‘What troubles you, Mama?’ Leon asked quietly.
‘That bunduki is a thing of evil. The white-haired woman is as powerful a sorcerer as I am. She has placed a spell on her own bunduki that frightens me.’ She turned back towards her hut. ‘I will not leave my hut until that witch departs from Lonsonyo Mountain,’ she vowed.
‘Lusima has been taken ill. She must go to her hut to rest,’ Leon translated.
‘Ja, I know very well what troubles her.’ The princess gave one of her rare, thin-lipped smiles.
Twenty days later, in country that Manyoro and Loikot had declared totally devoid of lions, they rode out of camp at dawn for the princess to continue her slaughter of warthogs - she had already accounted for more than fifty, including three boars with in
credibly long tusks. They had not ventured more than half a mile from the camp when they came across an enormous solitary black-maned lion standing in the middle of an open grassy vlei. Without a moment’s hesitation, and without dismounting, the princess brought up the little Mannlicher and, with a surgeon’s precision, put a bullet through the lion’s brain.
The two Masai should have been delighted with this performance but they were strangely subdued as they began to skin the carcass. It was left to Leon to tender his congratulations, which the princess ignored. He heard Loikot mutter to Manyoro, ‘This lion should never have been here. Where did he come from?’
‘Nywele Mweupe summoned him,’ Manyoro said sulkily. They had given the princess the Swahili name ‘White Hair’. Manyoro had not combined it with either of the titles of respect, ‘Memsahib’ or ‘Beibi’.
‘Manyoro, even from you that is an enormous stupidity,’ Leon snapped at him. ‘That lion came to the smell of all those warthog carcasses.’ He sensed mutiny in the air. Lusima had obviously had a word or two with Manyoro.
‘The bwana knows best,’ Manyoro conceded, with ostentatious courtesy, but he neither looked at Leon nor smiled. When they had finished the skinning, the two Masai did not perform the lion dance for the princess. Instead they sat apart and took snuff together. When Leon remarked on the omission Manyoro did not respond, but Loikot muttered, ‘We are too tired to dance and sing.’
When he shouldered the bundled green skin and started back for camp, Manyoro’s limp on the leg that had received the Nandi arrow, usually barely noticeable, became heavily pronounced. This was his way of expressing protest or disapproval.
When they rode into camp the princess sprang down from the saddle and strode into the mess tent where she dropped into a canvas chair. She threw her riding whip on to the table, removed her hat and sailed it across the tent, then shook out her braids and commanded, ‘Courtney, tell that useless cook of yours to bring me a cup of coffee.’