Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  ‘Yes. Carol, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry about yesterday. I was expecting you to be a man, and I didn’t have instructions from the client whether they had a preference for this role. I needed to check with them before I spoke to you and wasted your time.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m used to it. I presume they’re desperate if you’ve called me back?’

  Carol laughed. ‘In a nutshell,’ she said. ‘They need someone straight away. Are you available?’

  ‘It depends on the job.’ Sam bit her lip. She wasn’t good at lying. She kept her voice neutral even while her heart rate had mounted. ‘Where is the position based?’

  ‘In Lumbono, near the border with Ruanda. My client needs a general manager for an exploration project.’

  ‘Can you tell me who it is?’

  ‘Consaf.’

  ‘Consolidated African? Wow. Why haven’t they filled the job internally?’

  ‘They didn’t say, but I got the impression they were looking for new blood.’

  Fresh blood more like it. If no-one in the company wants the position that’s a red flag in any language.

  ‘So how did you find me?’

  ‘Alex Simmonds recommended you.’

  ‘That was nice of him.’

  ‘He said you were perfect for it.’

  Sam made a mental note to thank her ex-boss.

  ‘We worked together on a project that got cut short.’

  ‘Shame. This is not a prime position, but it’s a great opportunity to work for a major company and get that on your CV. Shall I tell them you are interested?’

  Sam fought her inclination to self-deprecation and say ‘if they’ll have me’. This is my chance to work for one of the big boys. I’ve got to toughen up and act as if I believe in myself. No-one knows how I feel inside except me.

  ‘That’ll be great.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if they want to interview you. Can you fly to South Africa next week?’

  ***

  Consolidated African paid for a business class ticket on the overnight flight, but even that luxury didn’t prevent Sam from feeling exhausted by the time she arrived in Johannesburg. She fell asleep in the car that picked her up, waking only when it stopped outside her hotel, an identikit member of a global chain with box hedges lining the turning circle outside the front entrance.

  ‘They’ve asked me to pick you up at two o’clock Miss Harris. Will that be okay?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. What time is it now?’ said Sam.

  ‘Nine thirty.’

  ‘Okay. See you then.’

  She entered the lobby of the hotel and approached the reception.

  ‘Good morning Madam.’

  ‘Good morning. My name is Sam Harris. You should have a reservation for me in the name of Consolidated African Limited.’

  ‘Ah yes. Consaf. Let’s see. It’s right here. Can I have your passport please?’

  Formalities over, Sam got into the elevator and pressed the button to the ninth floor. The label beside it read ‘executive level’. Five-star accommodation. Did every interviewee get the same treatment?

  The room was both palatial and claustrophobic with a wealth of uncomfortable looking furniture and lacy covers. The windows had safety catches on them so they could only be opened a crack. She dropped her luggage on the floor and walked into the bathroom where she turned on the water in the shower. Leaving her clothes piled on the floor, she slid into the shower and stood under the hot stream trying to release the tension in her back.

  Afterwards she sat swathed in towels looking out over the suburbs. She tried to get her interview head on but something nagged at her. It had been such a rush to get ready to travel; she had not asked herself why Consaf were so keen to interview her. It was a large conglomerate made up of mining companies with thousands of staff members.

  Why couldn’t they find anyone suitable for the position from within their own ranks? What was wrong with the project? It couldn’t have been a lack of funds or they wouldn’t have flown her business class from South America for an interview. That must have been expensive. And then there was this hotel suite.

  Finding no answer, she set her alarm clock to wake her in time to change and have a cup of tea before going to the interview. Like a lot of British people, tea occupied an essential place in her armoury, a cure all that merited first place in queue when she packed for a trip. She got into bed and dozed off, the air conditioning acting like a lullaby with its even hum.

  The alarm sounded too soon and she made tea which tasted of coffee in the coffee maker provided in the room. She used three of the little pots of milk to cool it down and take the edge off the coffee flavour.

  As she sipped the reviving brew, she pondered what she already knew about the offer and worked out her tactics for the interview. The circumstances of her arrival suggested that she was the only person in line for the job. Somehow, she would cover up her insecurities and present a confident front. It would be a fitting test of the changes she had made to her attitude since her sister Hannah had announced that she was pregnant with Simon’s baby.

  Simon had been Sam’s boyfriend all through university, and despite the ups and downs caused by his inability to stay faithful, she had stayed with him until she started to work abroad. While she was away in Sierramar searching for a missing friend, Simon had seduced her sister and finally killed the relationship. It seemed obvious to her Simon would break her sister’s heart too and she waited with metaphorically outstretched arms to receive the prodigal sister. Instead, her sister had found a harmony with him that she had never achieved, and it culminated in the birth of a child.

  This event induced an emotional crisis for Sam. She couldn’t deal with all the feelings that assailed her, giving her the sensation of drowning in a sea of sorrow. On the advice of a friend, she went to talk to a therapist who was patient and kind, and gave her coping strategies. She also sent Sam to a life coach to bolster her confidence.

  ‘You shouldn’t allow people to walk all over you. You are well-educated, capable and able-bodied. While they force you to suck up a certain amount of abuse to keep your jobs, you need to be more resilient,’ said the life coach.

  ‘But how? How do I stop everyone treating me like shit?’ said Sam, staring at her feet to prevent tears of self-pity from leaking out.

  ‘It’s your perception that is the problem,’ said the coach. ‘People believe in you. You’ve had good results in an industry that is ninety-nine percent male. You are successful on your own terms. You need to stand up for yourself.’

  ‘It’s hard to get over the habits of a lifetime,’ sniffed Sam.

  ‘I recommend you pretend to be confident. Pretend and keep pretending. Soon, you won’t have to pretend any more. Trust me. Trust yourself.’

  It was time to play hardball. No more Mr Nice Girl.

  Chapter II

  The Consaf building loomed over the road putting most of the others in the shade. It had a smart marble façade which reflected the shabby tenements occupying the majority of the road. Broken windows and cracked wooden doors bore testament to the neglect common to this area of town. There was no obvious reason for plonking such an opulent building in the middle of such poverty. Perhaps they were trying to gentrify the area and return it to former glories.

  Whatever the thinking, the Consaf edifice stood out like a sore thumb on the battered street, which had a high population of vagrants, perhaps because it was shady. They had done their own decorating in the overhang of the building across the street. Old newspapers were stacked up in alcoves with folded cardboard boxes and ancient blankets.

  Sam jumped out of the taxi at the entrance to Consaf. One of the ragged men congregated in the shade stood up when he noticed her hesitating on the pavement, and began to stagger over the road to her. The driver leaned out of the window and gesticulated at the entrance.

  ‘Don’t stand around outside. It’s not saf
e,’ he said.

  Then he gunned the engine and left her standing in the swirling rubbish whipped up by the car. Awoken from her reverie by the approaching peril, she pushed the revolving door and shuffled into it, trying to assume the same speed as the panels. A security guard approached the door and put his foot against a panel to prevent it revolving, trapping her inside.

  ‘ID please,’ he said.

  Overcoming her surprise at being trapped in such a way, Sam reached inside her bag and pulled out her passport. She waved it in the air but his foot stayed planted on the ground.

  ‘Open it at the photo page and put it up against the glass, Ma’am,’ he shouted through the glass.

  Sam couldn’t believe her ears.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she said, throwing her hands out in supplication.

  He folded his arms, his boot pressed up against the bottom of the door where she could see some pink chewing gum stuck between the tread.

  Sam fumbled with her passport and opened it at the photograph page. She pressed it against the door, level with his face. He peered at it, his forehead wrinkling as he narrowed his eyes. Claustrophobia caused her to break out in a cold sweat but she pretended to look out at the street where several vagrants had now gathered to leer at her. Jesus. Imagine if he revolved her back out again.

  The guard nodded and ran his pen down his clipboard until he located her name. He ticked it with a deliberate action that made her feel like screaming. At last he moved his foot away from the door with the speed of a crippled snail. It seemed to Sam that his reluctance was due to the thrill he was getting from keeping her trapped like a butterfly in a glass jar.

  He leered at her as she emerged, and put his hand on his crotch in a reflexive gesture that disgusted her. Worse was to happen. He then offered it to her for shaking.

  ‘Miss Harris, welcome to Consaf.’

  No way would she shake that. Instead she dropped her passport on the floor and grovelled at his feet, pretending to have difficulty picking it up. Thwarted, he withdrew his hand.

  ‘They’re waiting for you on the seventh floor,’ he said. ‘The lifts are at the back.’

  ‘Brilliant. Thank you,’ she said.

  She hurried past him avoiding the hand that stretched out to guide her back and pressed the lift button with her elbow. The left-hand lift doors opened and received a grateful Sam into its leather clad interior which smelt of cigars and male cologne. She selected the seventh floor and leant backwards against the side of the lift as it shot upwards. Her hands were sweating, and she wiped them on a tissue and sprayed a dash of cologne on her palms.

  Sam emerged out into a panelled passageway almost Victorian in its formality. A tall thin woman in a bright yellow dress was sitting in a chair opposite the lifts. She stood up and glided across to greet her.

  ‘Sam? I’m Miriam, PA to the chairman, Morné Van Rooyen. They’re waiting for you in the boardroom.’

  ‘The boardroom?’ Sam’s heart rate shot up. She glanced back at the lift.

  ‘Nervous?’ said Miriam. ‘Don’t be. They need you more than you need them. That position has been vacant for six months.’

  Sam took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m ready.’

  ***

  The clinking of a spoon in one of the expensive porcelain coffee cups littering the table was the only sound to break the embarrassed silence. Sam waited, hoping for the answer she wanted. She examined the all-male board resting her gaze for a moment on each face. The emerald coloured silk shirt she was wearing emphasised her piercing green eyes. Most of the board members avoided her scrutiny, looking down at their copy of her resume and fiddling with their pens, waiting for someone to break ranks.

  ‘No-one will take the position. Our employees consider it to be a poisoned chalice, a job nobody wants,’ said Dirk Goosen, the operations director.

  Sam turned to face him, trying to keep her face neutral.

  ‘And you imagined I might fancy it?’

  His face registered astonishment.

  ‘Well, um, help me out someone.’

  A gurgle escaped from Sam’s throat. She scanned the tense faces around the boardroom table. She’d never been in this position. In the past, employers had held her to ransom with the hope of a job. These people were gagging for her to accept it. This would be fun. She pierced him with a stare, unflinching.

  ‘What made you think that?’ she said.

  Dirk shrugged like a man who had met his match. An awkward silence reigned. Sam leaned forward in her chair and placed her arms on the table interlacing her fingers. She observed that several of the board mirrored her actions while others sat back in their chairs with their arms folded. A split of fifty-fifty. She would have to be careful not to alienate anyone.

  ‘Okay, I’ll answer my question for you. From what I gather, not only have your employees refused the job, but you can’t find anyone anywhere who is interested. Is that right so far?’

  A few glum nods around the table.

  ‘But Carol Downey found me lurking in London, and since I am unemployed, I jumped at the chance to fly here for an interview.’ She paused for effect. ‘You were so desperate to get me here, you paid for me to fly business class.’

  A few nervous giggles. Sam relaxed. This was in the bag if she played her cards right but just for once she wanted success her way.

  ‘It’s simple. I need a job and you have one. Why don’t you explain the problem and we can work from there? If I think I can fix the issue, I’ll visit the project for a recce. How does that sound?’

  Silence reigned. Had she gone too far with the confident act? If they only guessed how difficult she found it to blag her way into a job. But she was desperate, and this made her braver than usual.

  Dirk looked to the Chairman for permission. Morné Van Rooyen nodded his head and ran his fingers over his red moustache.

  ‘We have a project in the northeast corner of Lumbono, a mixed greenfields and brownfields exploration.’

  ‘Isn’t that in the Gatava triangle?’ said Sam.

  ‘It’s about thirty kilometres northwest of there,’ said Dirk.

  ‘Next door then,’ said Sam.

  ‘As the crow flies,’ said Dirk. ‘Masaibu’s a great project with fantastic geological potential, but it’s our problem child.’ He looked around at the rest of the board but no one made eye contact with him.

  ‘In what way?’ said Sam.

  ‘Serious management issues have arisen and we’ve found it impossible to discover the source of the problem. We’ve pumped money in with no sign of improvement.’

  ‘Who is running the project now?’ asked Sam.

  ‘That’s the issue. No one will live on site at Masaibu. All former project managers have run it from here.’ He swallowed.

  Sam struggled to stop her eyebrows flying up. ‘Did any of them speak French?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘This doesn’t sound like a project you can run remotely, or through a translator. My spoken French is good so I can communicate with people without an intermediary. I’d insist on living on site at Masaibu if you want me to run the exploration.’

  ‘You haven’t been there yet,’ said Dirk, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘When do I go?’ said Sam.

  Dirk laughed. Morné stood up and gestured at the door. ‘We need to discuss this among ourselves, Sam. Do you mind leaving the room? Miriam will make you a nice cup of coffee.’

  Chapter III

  After Sam left the room, there was a joint exhalation of breath as the men relaxed. Several of them lit cigarettes and sucked with gusto.

  ‘Well, gentlemen. What do you think?’ said Morné.

  ‘I don’t understand why you are even considering letting a woman run an exploration camp in Lumbono,’ said Paul Hogan, one of the more senior members of the board, his plump, pink cheeks wobbling with indignation. ‘You c
an’t send a woman there. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘No more dangerous than sending a man. Anyway, we have people out there already without experiencing problems,’ said Dirk.

  ‘Wouldn’t have happened in my day. I won’t agree to it,’ said Hogan, shaking his head.

  ‘Are you going instead then?’ said Morné, ‘because nobody else is offering.’

  Hogan harrumphed and folded his arms.

  ‘She seems like a capable young woman,’ said Dirk. ‘She worked in Simbako on a diamonds project in an area which was gutted by the civil war with no issues. My old pal, Harrison Simmonds, ex CEO of Redstone, told me that her dedication and work ethic are extraordinary. She had no problems working with local people.’

  ‘He probably slept with her.’ There was an audible gasp around the table as Devin Ryan spat the comment into the conversation.

  ‘Steady on there, Devin. There’s no call for that,’ said the chairman, his hand flying to his moustache for comfort.

  ‘I don’t imagine he did,’ said Dirk, unfazed by the venom in his colleague’s comment. ‘He is ex British army and as straight as they come. He’s not the sort to consort with his employees. Anyway, why don’t we deal with the facts? She has a first-rate resume with a Master’s degree in geology. She has previous African experience, and she speaks French, so she should find the source of the trouble without too much fuss. Doesn’t she sound like the perfect person for this position?’

  ‘She’s not a person, she’s a woman,’ said Devin. ‘That spells trouble in my book.’

  ‘We all know your opinion of women,’ said Dirk, ‘but company policy’s left you behind in that aspect. We’re not allowed to discriminate against a candidate because of their gender. You’ll have to move with the times.’

  ‘What financial experience does she have?’ said Devin. ‘The budget for this project is ten million dollars. How do we know she can manage a budget of that size?’

  There was silence for a minute.

  ‘That’s a good question Devin. We don’t. But she has all the other prerequisites and we’ve no other candidates,’ said Morné.