by Wilbur Smith
Only up very close were the stigmata that life and childbirth had left upon her visible. Shasa found even those small blemishes appealing. They emphasized her maturity and bespoke her experience and understanding of life. She was a woman, ripe and complete.
This was made even more apparent when they talked. They talked for hours at a time. These were lazy contented conversations during which they explored each other's mind in the same way they had explored each other's body in the double bed upstairs in the Livingstone Suite.
She told him about herself with an engaging candour. She described Bruno's slow cruel death as the crab of cancer ate him alive, and her own agony as she watched helplessly. She spoke of the loneliness that followed, seven long years of it. She did not have to tell him that she hoped that was now behind her. She merely reached out and touched his hand and it was understood.
She told him of her children: a son, also named Bruno, and three daughters.
Two of the girls were married, the youngest was at university in Milano, and Bruno junior was an MBA from Harvard, now working for Pignatelli Industries in Rome.
"He does not have his father's fire,' she told Shasa frankly. 'I do not think he will ever fill those shoes; they are many sizes too large for him." She made Shasa think of his own sons. They spoke of the heartaches and disappointments that their children had brought them and of the rare joys that some had bestowed upon them.
They explored together their love of horses and hunting, of music and art and fine things lovingly crafted, of books and music and theatre. Finally they spoke of power and money, and openly admitted their addictions to all these things.
They held nothing back, and at one point Elsa regarded him solemnly. 'It is too early to be absolutely certain, but I think that you and I will be good together." 'I believe that also,' he replied as gravely, and it was as though they had made a vow and a commitment.
They danced in the balmy African nights. They laid their cheeks together still hot and brown from the sun, and swayed to the beat of the steel band.
After midnight, they at last climbed the broad stairway, hand in hand, to their suite and the wide soft bed.
"Good Lordv Shasa said with genuine amazement. 'It's Thursday. We have been here four days. The kids will be wondering what on earth has happened to us.' They were at brunch on the open terrace.
"I think they will guess.' Elsa looked up from the mango she was peeling for him and smiled. 'And I don't think that "kids" is the correct description for that rumbustious Utter of yours." 'Van Wyk will be arriving at Chizora tomorrow,' Shasa pointed out.
"I know,' she sighed. 'I hate the thought of ending this, but we must be there to meet him."
Sir Clarence Van Wyk was one of those extraordinary creatures that African evolution sometimes throws up.
He was a pure-bred Afrikaner. His father had been chief justice of South Africa when it was part of the British Empire, and he had received his hereditary title when it was still permissible for a South African to accept that honour.
Sir Clarence was a product of Eton and Sandhurst. He had been an officer in a famous Guards regiment, and was heir to the considerable family estates in the Cape of Good Hope. He was also the minister in Ian Smith's government specifically charged with funding the debilitating guerrilla warfare in which Rhodesia was engaged, and in evading the comprehensive mandatory sanctions that the British Labour Government, the United States and the United Nations had placed upon these perpetrators of unilateral independence.
Garry and Shasa had arranged this meeting during their stop-over in Salisbury on the way to Chizora. Sir Clarence was an avid big-game hunter, and they had promised him a bit of sport in the intervals between their deliberations.
Sir Clarence arrived at Chizora in a Rhodesian air-force helicopter. He had with him two of his aides and a pair of bodyguards, all of whom threatened to put a strain on the safari camp. The staff and facilities were geared to entertaining a much smaller number of guests. However, Sean had been given plenty of notice, and additional equipment, staff and stores had been sent down from Salisbury by truck.
The conference-table under the msasa tree was extended and additional chairs set out for Sir Clarence and his team. Isabella joined them as her father's personal assistant. From the beginning Sir Clarence made no attempt to conceal his interest in her.
At six foot five inches, Sir Clarence towered above even Shasa or Sean. He was a most impressive figure of a an whose plummy upper-class English accent and classical features belied his Afrikaner origins. He had a brilliant financial and political brain and a reputation as a lady's man.
Under the msasa tree, they negotiated the marketing and transportation of a nation's wealth and produce, and the commissions and handling fees due to each of them.
Rhodesia was a primary producer, which simplified these deliberations considerably. Her small-scale mines that worked narrow quartz reefs nevertheless turned out a considerable gold production. This did not concern them here, for gold was anonymous'. There was no 'Made in Rhodesia' stamp upon it, and its high value-to-bulk ratio made it readily transportable and disposable.
It was different with the other primary products of the country: tobacco and rare metals, chiefly chrome. These had to be transported in bulk, their country of origin had to be concealed and then they must be disseminated to the markets of the world.
From Rhodesia, the railways ran southwards to the harbours of Durban and Cape Town in the Republic of South Africa. That was the natural route for these treasures to go. For years now, ever since the Smith Government's declaration of independence, Garry Courtney and Courtney Enterprises had played a leading rele in helping Rhodesia evade the sanctions campaign against it.
Now there was to be an ambitious new strategy. After carefully studying the Pignatelli group of industries, Garry and Sir Clarence were offering Elsa Pignatelli the lucrative opportunity of taking part in these anti-sanctions activities.
Pignatelli Industries owned the second-largest tobacco 0e company in Europe, after the British American Tobacco Company. In addition, they had a controlling interest in Winnipeg Mining in Canada, and operated a stainless-steel mill and vanadium refinery in southern Italy near Taranto.
All this dovetailed neatly with Rhodesia's need to find a market for her products, but there was hard bargaining ahead.
Although it was conducted in a superficially civilized and friendly atmosphere, these were all shrewd and merciless financial predators locked in a contest of minds and wills. Isabella watched them with awe. Her brother used his bluff, almost bumbling manner, his myopic ingenuous gaze and hearty laugh to conceal the steely calculating mind.
Elsa Pignatelli, poised and beautiful, shamelessly exploited her looks and her charms and used the feminine rapier against their masculine cutlasses.
She matched and met them with ease.
Sir Clarence was suave and his manners courtly. He held the line like the Guardsman he was and made them pay dearly for every inch he was forced to yield. Then he counter-attacked with consummate timing.
Shasa sat aloof at his end of the table, leaving most of the bargaining to Garry. However, when he spoke, his comments were pithy and apposite, and very often served to break a log-jam in the negotiations and to propose the equitable compromise.
The sums of money they were discussing were of numbing magnitude. While Isabella recorded the minutes of this conference, she amused herself by calculating two and a half percent of three billion dollars. That would be the Courtney Enterprises share of the loot in the coming twelve months alone, all of it earned without any additional capital investment on their part. When she had the total worked out, she looked at her brother with renewed respect.
At noon the conference adjourned for an elaborate lunch. In the air-force Alouette helicopter Sir Clarence had brought with him a selected baron of the finest Rhodesian beef. Sean and his chef had passed the morning in barbe-
cueing it to golden-brown perfection over a
fire of mopanc coals. They cleared their palates with a glass of Dom Perignon while they watched Sean carve pink slices from the joint and the juices spurted and sizzled from around the blade.
During the luncheon, Sir Clarence demonstrated as great a skill and finesse as he had at the conference-table in his attempts to cut Isabella out of the herd and put his brand upon her.
Isabella was flattered by his attentions and more than a little tempted. He was a superior man, a dominant herd bull. Power is a wonderful aphrodisiac for any woman. In addition, he had thick wavy dark hair with just a touch of grey at the temples. She liked his eyes. He was so tall, and he amused her with his urbane wit.
She found herself smiling at his sallies, and once she glanced down at his feet. They must be size fourteen in those gleaming hand-made chukka boots, and she smiled again thoughtfully. Perhaps that was a fallacy, but never theless the possibility was intriguing.
She could almost hear Nanny's rebuke ring in her cars. 'All the Courtneys got hot blood. You must be careful, missy, and remember you are a lady." She knew he was married, but it seemed a long time since she had taken comfort from a man's body, and he was so big and powerful. Perhaps, if Sir Clarence continued to demonstrate the requisite amount of class and s - then perhaps, just perhaps he stood a chance.
After lunch they returned to the conference-table. It seemed to Isabella that their minds had been stimulated rather than dulled by the Dom Perignon.
At four o'clock Garry glanced at his watch. 'If we aren't to miss the evening flight, then I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow morning." They drove down to the pools in both trucks to shoot the evening flight of ring-necked doves coming in to drink.
Sir Clarence had contrived, without making it too obvious, to seat himself beside Isabella in the leading truck. However, at the last moment just as they were about to pull away, she jumped down and ran back to sit beside Garry in the second truck. She didn't want to make it too easy for Sir C. She sensed that he enjoyed the chase as much as the kill. Garry was in an ebullient mood. As he drove he slipped one arm around her shoulders and squeezed her.
"God, I love it,' he exulted. 'I love Harold Wilson and James Callaghan and all those, sanctimonious little bleeding hearts in the General Assembly of the United Nations. I love being a sanctions-buster. It's exciting and romantic. It makes me feel like Al Capone or Captain Blood. Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum. It gives me a fine feeling of patriotism and the opportunity to make a telling political statement, while at the same time I can pocket seventy-five million pounds in lovely hard cash that the taxman will never see. It's beautiful. I love all sanctioneers and prohibitionists." 'You are incorrigible.' She laughed at him. 'Isn't there any limit to your appetite for riches?" At that he sobered and removed his arm from her shoulders. 'You think I'm avaricious?' he asked. 'It's not so, Bella. The truth is that I am a player in the great game. I don't play for the monetary prize, I play for the thrill of winning. I was a loser for too much of my life. Now I must be a winner." "Is that all there is to it?' She was also serious now. 'You are playing with the wealth and well-being of millions of little people to gratify your ego." 'When I win, then those little people win. The sanctioneers; seek to inflict starvation and misery upon millions of ordinary people in order to enforce their particular political vision. That, in my view, is a crime against humanity. When I frustrate their efforts, I strike a powerful blow for the little people." 'Oh, Garry, you aren't a white knight. Don't pretend to be one - please!" 'Oh, yes, I am,' he contradicted her. 'I am one of the white knights of the capitalist system. Don't you see that?
The only way out of our dilemma in southern Africa is through the education and upliftment of the people, particularly the blacks, and by the creation of wealth. We must steer for a society based not on class or caste or race or creed, but on merit. A society in which every person can pull his full weight and be rewarded in proportion to that effort - that is the capitalistic way." 'Garry, I have never heard you speak like that before, like a liberal." 'Not a liberal, a capitalist. Apartheid is a primitive feudal system. As a capitalist, I abhor it as much or more than any of the sanctioneers.
Capitalism destroyed the ancient feudalism of medieval Europe. Capitalism cannot co-exist with a system that reserves power and privilege to a hereditary minority, a system which suppresses the free-market principles of labour and goods. Capitalism will destroy apartheid if it is allowed to do so. The sanctioneers would deny and inhibit that process. By their well-intentioned but misguided actions they bolster apartheid and they play into the hands of its perpetrators." She stared at him. 'I've never thought about it that way before." 'Poverty leads to repression. It is easy to oppress the poor. It is almost impossible to oppress an educated and prosperous people for ever." 'So you will point the way to freedom through the economic rather than the political kingdom." 'Precisely,' Garry nodded and then he boomed out that big laugh. 'And I'll set a fine capitalistic example by making myself seventy-five million pounds a year in the process." He braked the truck and turned off the track, following the leading Toyota with Sean at the wheel down to the pools in the mopane forest.
These were shallow depressions, known in Africa as pans, filled with a muddy grey water. They were warmed by the sun and heavily laced with the pungent urine of the elephant herds that regularly bathed and drank in them. Despite the temperature and flavour of the water the flocks of doves preferred them to the clear running water of the river only two miles distant.
The birds came in the hour before sunset in flocks that filled the air like blue-grey smoke. In their tens of thousands they winged in along established flight-lanes.
Sean set up his guns on these lanes, five or six hundred metres from the water. He did not wish to prevent the birds from drinking by placing the guns over the pans.
Instead he forced them to run the gauntlet to reach the water. As a matter of honour, each gun was expected to observe strictly the daily bag-limit of fifty birds, and to attempt only the difficult challenging shots at high, swiftly flying doves.
The guns were placed in pairs. Not merely for company, but also to check each other and see fair play, and to provide an appreciative audience for those finely taken doubles or that beautifully led shot at a blue streak passing a hundred feet overhead at seventy miles an hour.
Quite naturally, Elsa paired with Shasa, and their cries of 'Bello! Molto hello!' and 'Jolly good shot! Well donev rang through the mopane as they encouraged each other.
Garry and Sean made a pair on the west side of the pans. Deliberately they placed themselves behind a tall stand of timber so that the doves were forced high and hurtled into their view over the tree-tops without warning, presenting a shot so fleeting as to call for lightning reflexes and instinctive calculation of lead.
Once Sean missed his bird, shooting two or three feet behind it. Garry swivelled with the long Purdy mounting to his shoulder and brought the escaping dove tumbling down on a trail of loose feathers. Then he looked across at his older brother with his spectacles glinting gleefully and boomed with laughter. Sean tossed back his hair and tried to ignore him, but his face darkened with fury.
Isabella was left with Sir Clarence at the south end of a grassy glen out of sight of the rest of the party. She was shooting the gold-engraved 2o-gauge Holland & Holland that her father had given her. However, she had not fired it for almost a year, and her lack of practice showed up in her shooting.
She clean missed the first three birds in succession and then pricked one.
She said: 'Damn! Double damn!' She hated to wound them.
Sir Clarence took an accomplished double, then set his shotgun against the trunk of a mopane tree and crossed to where she stood.
"I say, do you mind if I give you a few tips?' he asked.
When she smiled at him over her shoulder he came up behind her. 'You are allowing your right hand to overpower the gun.' He folded her in his arms and took her hands in his huge fists. 'Remember, your left hand must always dominate. T
he right hand is there only to pull the trigger." He mounted the gun to her shoulder for her and squeezed her left hand on to the forestock for emphasis.
"Head up,' he said. 'Both eyes open. Watch the bird, not the gun." He smelt masculine. The perfume of his aftershave lotion did not entirely conceal the odour of fresh male sweat. His arms around her felt very agreeable.