Nathalie knew that in Harare this promise wouldn’t exactly be watertight but she accepted his offer with a smile and let him lead her to the room.
Nathalie was right about the taxi. She called down as soon as she stepped out of the shower but she had to wait in the lobby for at least twenty minutes before it arrived. Although it was only a few minutes’ ride to the production company near Alexandra Park she would still be late.
XXL Productions were one of the few places in Harare where you could hire crew and equipment. The problem was that they didn’t have anyone capable of operating their best camera, a Canon C-300. Stefanie had suggested that they hire a lower spec camera and use one of their guys who knew how to use it but Geoff rightly said that anyone that could operate a C-300 would probably be relied on to get good pictures. Geoff was really mean with money but he strangely overcame this tic when it came to quality cinematography. The result was that they had pulled in a freelance cameraman from Victoria Falls and hired the C-300.
The taxi pulled up outside a modest looking building sporting an equally modest sign on its facade. The two Xs of XXL were composed of slashes of red but that was the last of the creative influence, otherwise it could have been the face of an accountant’s office. Nathalie rang the bell. Noticing a small camera above the door she peered into it and stated her name. The door clicked open. Inside was a small square anti-room with yet another door. This had a wire-framed window inserted into it. She peered through to see an extensive lobby with a young African man sitting behind a large desk. She pushed at the door and it swung open. The young man rose to greet her.
‘Ah Miss Thompson, we were expecting you earlier but no matter, Mike Jeffries has just arrived as well. I’ll take you straight through.’
Mike Jeffries; Nathalie recalled the name from the call-sheet. One of the best cameramen in Zimbabwe according to the blurb. He’d driven eight hours to get here but because of the nature of the shoot had accepted a special rate. She was shown into a large meeting room with a central table surrounded by a number of upright chairs. A number of these chairs were occupied by what she assumed to be her film crew.
One of the men, a black Zimbabwean, stood up to greet her. ‘Hi, I’m Canaan, I run XXL. Pleased to meet you Nathalie.’
She shook his hand and accepted the invitation to sit beside him. He introduced her to the other men in the room. Mike Jeffries, cameraman; Farai Hatendi, sound recordist; and Chris Anderson the spark. Nathalie tried not to show her concern that two of the crew were ‘white Rhodesians’. She wondered what WEXA would think of that. After the formalities Canaan asked to excuse himself.
‘I’m sure you guys have got a lot to talk about; Chris and Farai work for XXL so if you want any information about the company or the kit they will fill you in. Unless you particularly need me for anything I’ll leave you to it.’
Nathalie waited until the door had closed behind her and sat back in her chair to address the three men.
‘Hi, first of all thanks for coming to this meeting, especially you Mike; I know you’ve come a long way. As you know, the shoot is in two days’ time, and I know it’s normal to get your brief on the day but this shoot’s a little bit different.’
She noticed that Chris and Farai leaned forward and put their elbows on the table at this point. These must be the two guys that had been warned for so-called subversive filming. She had checked their programme output. Mostly harmless documentaries for NGOs and charities. Nothing subversive that she could see. She hoped they wouldn’t back out when they heard what she was about to say.
‘Now I know my producer Geoff Sykes has spoken on the phone with Mike and given him a rough outline, but I want to make sure that you guys,’ she looked directly at her potential sound recordist and sparks, ‘are really on board with this.’
Farai spoke up. He had a soft lilting accent that Nathalie found quite mesmerising. ‘Believe me Nathalie Thompson, if for the last five years you’ve been shooting films under strict censorship like we have, there is nothing more you would like to do than record something that, as you say, is “different”. Chris and I have checked out your company on the internet and from what we can see you do some pretty far out stuff. You couldn’t have hired a more willing crew.’
Nathalie felt a wave of relief followed by an immediate nagging concern.
‘You haven’t told anyone else that I’m from Bagatelle have you?’
Chris intervened. ‘No, of course not. We assume that you got into the country under a pseudonym or some other pretext. If we are not allowed to film investigative documentaries then sure as hell our government isn’t going to allow a foreigner to do it here.’
‘Okay, right, but I really would like you to know what you’re in for. At the end of the shoot I’ll be going home. Now I’m pretty sure that we can do this without any sniff from the authorities but you live here; I need you to know the risks.’
The three men just sat in their chairs and waited.
Nathalie passed them their call-sheets. ‘Here’s the schedule. As you see it’s under the guise of an NGO called Imunaid. Imunaid doesn’t exist. As you’ve deduced we’ve created this company to gain access to film in the country. To make it work we’ve got to make this part of the shoot realistic. Film it as if we are really making a documentary on childhood immunisation. Also we could get some really good GVs for setting the scene in our real programme; African village life, ways in which disease could spread et cetera.’
Mike spoke up for the first time. ‘And the title of this real programme?’
‘There isn’t one yet, but the project is going under the working title of “Bioterrorism”.’ She waited for the message to sink in.
Mike put his head on one side. ‘Quite a change from filming bloody waterfalls,’ he said quietly.
Nineteen
Tom was in a complete daze. A few months ago he would have given his eye teeth to jet around the world, now he wasn’t so sure. His trip had taken nearly twenty-four hours. He had taken off and landed at three different airports in three different countries, not that he’d seen much of them. The four-hour stop in Singapore and the two-hour stop in Johannesburg were spent dragging his bag from one terminal to another and sitting in soulless airport lounges. Now he was in another, waiting for his bag to come off the carousel. He glanced at the row of international clocks on the wall. It was nearly 11.00 am Harare time. In an hour’s time he was meant to be meeting Nathalie for lunch, and after that a rendezvous with this Temba guy to convince him to take part in their film. In this state he didn’t think he could persuade a drowning man to take a lifebelt. He hadn’t slept for nearly two days and was feeling really spaced out. Through the knot of bodies he spotted his case tumbling down the conveyor. He knew it was his, it had a large Day-Glo gaffer tape cross strapped across it. A tip given to him by Stefanie. He squeezed through the crowd, hoisted the case from the rubber rack and made his way towards the blinding sunlight streaming through the exit.
‘Tom, over here.’ Nathalie’s voice.
He shaded his eyes and panned across the waiting crowd. No sign of her.
‘Here, over here.’
His eyes, now becoming accustomed, spotted a dark-haired head bobbing up and down in the press. She pushed through the swarm of people and took his bag from him.
‘Welcome to Zimbabwe,’ she said. ‘Follow me, I’ve got a cab waiting outside.’
Tom sat beside her in the taxi. His head still swimming. Glad to be out of the melée of the airport.
‘You look absolutely blitzed,’ said Nathalie. ‘A good lunch and ten cups of espresso should put you right. I’ve booked just the place.’
The taxi sped north through the suburbs and towards the centre of Harare. Tom began to tell Nathalie about the laboratory raid in Surabaya but she told him to sit back and relax.
‘Plenty of time for that over lunch, the ride is about half an hour so chill out and take in the city. We will both think more clearly with a bit of food insid
e us.’
The restaurant, claiming to be Italian, was just north of the botanical gardens; the location that Lloyd had chosen for Tom to meet Temba. It was unlike any Italian restaurant that Tom had ever visited. A vast thatch-like building was surrounded by a stream breached by the arc of a rather twee wooden bridge. Tables and parasols were scattered under the large trees. The arrangement looked rather inviting in the dappled light so they decided to eat alfresco. Nathalie ordered a margarita pizza for herself and a melanzani parmigiana with a double espresso for Tom.
She looked at her watch, ‘Okay we’ve got a couple of hours before I have to go to the hospital to finalise the shoot tomorrow and you have to meet with Temba Murauzi. Why don’t we kick off by you telling me about your Surabaya trip. I know Nick was pretty effusive but, how do I put it, Nick always looks on the bright side.’
Tom had prepared for this on his long-haul flights. He took out his notebook and methodically told Nathalie the story. His first trip to the laboratory and the dog attack, meeting Nick and eventually Gita. And finally, the laboratory raid and their filming in the village. He didn’t mention about his mouth being full of chilli, only praising the cameraman for getting some really good pictures.
‘Wow, I thought I had a baptism of fire on my first shoot,’ exclaimed Nathalie. ‘Seems tame after what you’ve been through. If Nick manages to get permission to air that police footage, with a bit of graphic manipulation it should look really good.’
Tom blushed with the praise.
‘No really Tom, you’ve done well. Now we need to sew up this Zimbabwe part of the story.’
She told him about the arrangements with WEXA. Not guaranteed but Lloyd said it looked promising. Her meeting this afternoon was with the outreach team to finalise details about travel, accommodation and the next two days’ filming. The film crew were well on board. Couldn’t wait to get their teeth into clandestine documentary making. With a bit of luck they would have some telling footage in the can in two days’ time. It was a pity that they had to go through the charade of an immunisation programme. The project on the ground looked really worthwhile and Nathalie felt quite guilty about taking them in.
‘Will you need me on the shoot?’ asked Tom expectantly.
‘It depends. Let’s see how your meeting with Murauzi goes. It’s really important that we get this Moroccan thing, especially now you’ve found some sort of odd connection in Surabaya. If you need longer to get him on board then I would suggest you stay. Otherwise you could come on the shoot and help out. I could do with a good A.D.’
‘A.D.?’
‘Assistant director,’ said Nathalie with a smile. ‘I hear you’ve got some experience.’
The pitted and rusting sign at the entrance to the National Botanic Gardens had seen better days, as had the gardens. With a bit of tender loving care they could have been spectacular. Still, the wide open spaces and arboretums were welcome respite from the traffic in downtown Harare. Tom walked under the shade in the natural woodland. The roots of the trees were exposed as gnarled, knotted and twisted serpents but their canopies acted as biological verandas casting relieving shadows over the burned-out grass. He glanced at his tourist map. Through the Savannah, and past the odd asymmetric pyramid known as the Desert House, he would find the Auditorium. The blurb described it as a place for meetings and workshops but Lloyd had assured him that no formal events were taking place there today. After a ten-minute walk he saw it in the distance. A vast open-air structure under thatch. He hoped he would recognise Temba but Lloyd’s description of a tall thin Zimbabwean with glasses was not very helpful. As he came closer he realised to his dismay that the shelter was already occupied. A photographer was lining up a wedding party for some album shots. The bride looked stunning, her bronze neck contrasting with the long white dress. The man with the camera was having difficulty in explaining the composition. One large guest was obscuring the mother of the bride and some good-natured banter was taking place.
‘It’s a popular location for wedding photographs.’ A lightly accented voice came from behind his shoulder.
He turned to see Temba. It had to be him; tall, thin, wearing spectacles, an educated face.
‘I hope I’ve got the right time,’ said Tom. ‘Lloyd said that there wasn’t an event on this afternoon.’
‘No you’re fine, these wedding parties just turn up, they shouldn’t be long.’
Tom put out his hand. ‘Tom Finch, good to meet you.’
Tom felt a gentle hand press into his. ‘Good to meet you too Tom.’
The two men strolled under the thatched canopy of the auditorium which shielded them from the direct sunlight. As Temba had suggested the party were now moving off to another location. He pointed to one of the large wooden pillars.
‘Let’s sit over there and we can talk.’
They walked over to a large piece of coconut matting, presumably left there by some convention or other. Temba squatted down cross-legged and invited Tom to do the same. Tom put down his bag, sat and leaned against the pillar.
‘I don’t know what Lloyd’s told you but I don’t think I want to do this,’ opened Temba.
‘I can understand that,’ said Tom. ‘I’d probably feel exactly the same but I’ve just been asked to come and have a chat with you. Could you help me out here?’
Temba made a slight shrug of his shoulders.
Tom reached into his bag and took out a notebook. ‘I’m new to this game, even a bit of information would help.’
‘Such as?’
‘This Biomedivac company, how do you know them?’
‘That’s an easy one. I won this competition, pharmacologist of the year, huh. Anyway the prize was an exchange with a scientist from a top manufacturing plant in Africa. I would spend several weeks a year working on some of their stuff and one of their employees would lecture at the university about the real world. There were several companies involved in the project. I’d been to South Africa and Kenya so I chose Morocco. Sounded an interesting place.’
‘And Biomedivac’s plant’s there?’
‘Yeah, different companies in different countries, just happened to be them.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Oh a couple of weeks I think. They really liked my work; I’d done a thesis on Ebolavirus glycoprotein in E. coli. Uh sorry glycoprotein is…’
‘Yes I know what glycoprotein is, I did a microbiology degree.’
‘Oh yes, Lloyd did tell me. Anyway they liked the stuff so much that they wanted me to go back to collaborate some more.’
‘On Ebola?’
‘That and other stuff. The idea is to link the R & D side with manufacturing.’
Tom scribbled a note in his book. ‘What sort of other stuff?’
‘Oh this and that, can’t say too much, it’s supposed to be confidential.’
From the askance expression on Temba’s face Tom could see that he wasn’t going to get much more on this topic. He repositioned himself to get more comfortable. ‘So if you’re going back there and we could get you in with the big cheese, I would have thought the filming would do your career some good.’
‘It’s not my career I’m worried about. You have no idea what it’s like to be one of us in Zimbabwe.’
‘One of us’, thought Tom, what a strange expression. One that he hoped had gone out of currency a long time ago.
‘I am right about that?’ said Temba, looking at him out of the corner of one eye.
‘I don’t see what making the film has got to do with . . . with that,’ said Tom making a face. ‘I would have thought as a scientist, an African scientist, you could do some good by talking about antivirals, as a protection for populations as well as an antidote to bioterrorism. From what I’ve read your knowledge of adenoviral vectors and EBOV glycoproteins is up with the top researchers in the world. Surely this is your one chance to spread the word.’
‘Wow, quite a speech Tom, and very complimentary, and it sounds like you�
��ve done your homework on some of my papers. But you live in the UK. Our laws are very different here. I have to be very careful. This publicity could turn on me.’
‘I don’t see how. I doubt if the programme will ever get aired here. And even if some government official got to see it, we are hardly going to publicise your private life. What’s different in talking in a film than giving your lectures?’
‘I suppose if you put it like that. It’s just that I don’t like drawing attention to myself. Have to live two sorts of lives you know.’
The shadow of the pillar was lengthening and running into the grassland beyond their shelter. Tom got up to stretch his legs. He stared into the distance. The high-rises of Harare leaked through the foliage. A grey backdrop to the plant life of the park. Of course he knew. He was one of the lucky ones, born in the right decade in a metropolitan city and now with a job in the media. Not one of his colleagues had turned a hair. How different it must be for Temba in Zimbabwe. Was he doing the right thing to persuade the guy to stick his neck out?
‘So how does it work here?’ Tom paced up and down under the auditorium roof. ‘Do you have a community? Meeting places? I mean, I know it’s illegal but things must happen.’
Temba got to his feet. ‘Of course. There are places we can go. Sometimes it’s convenient for the authorities to turn a blind eye. Often money changes hands. Other times, at a whim, they can raid the places and arrest people. It can get quite brutal. I’ve been fortunate, moved around, have a few friends that belong to what you might call the intellectual set. I can introduce you to some of them if you like.’
‘Yeah, I would like that. I’m asking you to come into my world, why shouldn’t I come into yours?’
‘You free this evening?’
Tom remembered what Nathalie had said. ‘Do what you can to get this guy on board.’ ‘Yeah sure. Where should we meet?’
‘The last venue was just south of here near the golf club, but it moves about so I’ll need to check.’
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