Three heads nodded sober agreement.
‘Your return flight leaves Accra the morning after the fight and they’ll probably be giving everyone a good spin. But you’ll be carrying nothing suspicious, no different from any of the other passengers. You should be safe as houses going through the airport.’
‘Should be!’ Bert gave a loud snort. ‘Fucking well better be! I don’t fancy supping porridge out there.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Colin assured him. ‘You wouldn’t do too long in the nick anyway.’
‘Is that right?’ Bert looked into Colin’s innocently smiling face. ‘Don’t they lob out the heavy porridge over there?’
‘Nah,’ Colin scoffed, straight-faced. ‘You’d only do a few months.’
‘What!’ Bert stared incredulously at him. ‘A few months?’
‘Aye,’ Colin smiled wickedly. ‘Then they’d take you out and shoot you!’
20
‘So it’s all settled,’ Colin addressed his three friends against the background noise of the cafeteria in Gatwick Airport. He turned to Bert. ‘You and Doc are fixed up with the parachute club and Ray …’ he turned his head, ‘will be starting his flying lessons next week. That’s right isn’t it?’
‘Southend Airport,’ Ray confirmed. ‘A Civil Aviation Authority-approved course. And they do a twin-engine rating there too.’
‘You’ll need to try and get into the cockpit of a DC-3. It’s important that you’re at least familiar with the layout and controls.’
The public address system announced the final call for Flight BA 220 for Rome, Accra and Lagos.
‘That’s me this time,’ he told them. ‘We’ll need to wind up now.’ He reached under the table for his hand-baggage, propping it on his knees. ‘From now on it’s all up to us. As long as we all stick in and do our bit, we’ll pull this off all right.’ He rose to his feet as the final call was repeated. ‘I’ll see you all in four weeks’ time,’ he smiled confidently. ‘Right now I’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘We won’t hang about,’ Bert acted as spokesman. ‘If we hit the road now we can be back in town before lunch.’ He pushed his hand out, giving Colin the villain’s farewell: ‘Be lucky, mate.’ Doc and Ray followed suit, both giving him a firm, confident grip.
*
Colin looked at the plastic tags for his seat number as he moved along the 707’s aisle. Row 28, Seat F was almost at the rear of the plane. He smiled at the sight of an old DC-3 parked over to his left as he bent into his window seat, unconsciously nodding, accepting its tacit challenge. A bustle of movement at his side drew his attention and a black passenger lowered himself into one of the empty seats beside him.
‘You don’t remember me then?’ The well-dressed man looked at him and smiled.
Colin was surprised to be addressed in such a familiar manner. ‘Sorry. Should I?’
The man smiled at Colin, mildly amused. Then he pushed out a slim black hand. ‘Yarty. Yarty Okufu.’
‘Christ!’ Colin offered his hand. ‘I should have recognised you. But the clothes …’ he waved at Yarty’s impeccable style. ‘That’s what put me off.’
‘No, no,’ Yarty shook his hand and grinned at him. ‘Be honest …’ He hesitated, trying to recall Colin’s name. ‘Grant! Colin Grant! That’s it. Now be honest,’ he repeated. ‘We black men all look alike to you, don’t we?’
Colin smiled back, a little embarrassed by his comment.
‘I thought you were in a hurry to get to Ghana?’ Yarty looked curiously at him. ‘All that rushing about for a visa?’
‘I was in a hurry. I flew out to Ghana the very next day.’
‘Yet here you are now?’ Yarty’s eyes turned quizzical.
‘I had to fly home unexpectedly. Family problems,’ Colin improvised. ‘But they’re sorted out now. So …’
‘So now you are going back,’ Yarty finished for him. ‘I am pleased that you find my country so attractive.’
‘I like it,’ Colin assured him. ‘I like it very much.’
The sober-suited man sitting beside him appeared to be a very different person from the casually dressed Yarty that Colin remembered from the Embassy. An expensive Patek Philippe watch adorned his left wrist and the huge diamond that flashed from a chunky pinky ring was hard to miss. There was obviously a lot more to Yarty Okufu that he had originally thought. Yarty looked like a man of some substance and his speech seemed to have lost many of its easy-going mannerisms.
‘Are you going home then?’ Colin ventured a question.
For a moment Yarty’s face took on a happy expression, then a shadow clouded his eyes.
‘Yes. I go home.’ His speech slipped into the Africanese Colin had become used to. ‘I have to go home.’
‘Why ‘have to’?’ Colin sensed a hint of reluctance behind the words.
‘It is my father’s wish.’ Dark eyes turned on him, staring for a moment. ‘No! I do not speak true.’ He spat out the admission. ‘It is not my father’s wish. My father desires that I stay in England to complete my studies.’ His voice turned cold. ‘But it is impossible.’
‘How’s that?’ Colin could feel frustration emanating from Yarty and noticed his hand move to caress a gold medallion that hung incongruously against an immaculate collar and tie.
‘It is the fault of the government.’ Yarty’s voice was uncompromising. ‘Their policies have brought my country to the very brink of ruin. Corrupt ministers and officials have undermined the economy. Illegal trading is rife, forced upon the people by iniquitous price controls. The Ashanti people have become apathetic in the face of widespread corruption and the workers find their living standards, once the highest in black Africa, diminished; their wages purchase less and less each month.’
‘That’s the way it is everywhere,’ Colin commiserated. ‘It’s called inflation.’
‘Their policies have reduced my people to little more than serfs!’ Yarty exclaimed. ‘First the white man enslaved them, raping the very earth for gold, diamonds, timber and minerals in the process. But at least they put something back into the country. They built schools, hospitals, factories and roads. They provided services. Indeed, we prospered under colonial rule and became the first African country to achieve independence. Since then we have had a series of governments, both military and civil, each one more corrupt than the last.’
Colin felt a little uncomfortable in the heat of the man’s bitterness and tried to lower the temperature. ‘The people I met out there seemed pretty happy.’
‘Pretty happy!’ Yarty’s eyes blazed at him. ‘A proud race, Warrior Ashanti, reduced to smuggling cocoa beans across the border so they can afford to feed their families? Their tribal lands stripped of natural wealth; labouring in the bauxite mines; grubbing in the goldmines. Ashanti men, once the proudest, fiercest fighting men in the whole of Africa, having to stand aside as their ancient tribal lands are looted by their very own government. Pretty happy!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Yarty relaxed, leaning his head back against his seat. ‘I did not mean to get angry, not with you anyway. You do not see what is going on away from the main townships. But it is because of those things that I must return to my people.’ His voice had returned to normal, the virulence fading to a bitter resentfulness.
‘At least you seem to have done all right.’ Colin’s eyes took in Yarty’s clothes and looked pointedly at the display of jewellery.
Yarty caught the look.
‘You are surprised I have such things?’
‘Well, after that little speech? Forced to leave university … reduced to peasants and all that. Yes, I am a little surprised. And look at the tom you’re wearing!’ Colin flapped a hand at the expensive jewellery and looked pointedly at the medallion and its heavy gold chain. ‘You’ve got enough gold on you to sink a ship!’
Yarty’s hand rose to fondle the gleaming talisman. ‘My people would not like to see me going about in rags.’
‘Your people?’
�
�Yes.’ Yarty turned to stare, almost arrogantly, at him. ‘My people’, he emphasised. ‘I am the eldest son of the Asantehene of Kumasi – Keeper of the Golden Stool, Chief of all Ashanti tribes and lands. I must inspire confidence in my people. Make them proud of me and proud of my father whom I represent.’ He fingered the medallion on his chest. ‘One day I will lead my people to a greater freedom. I want to give my people back their pride. I want to help them build a nation free from dependence on outsiders. I want them to take a just pride in modern skills; to become engineers, doctors, skilled workers, learn to operate modern production machinery, to be farmers wise in the new technologies and, most of all, teachers in all of these things to educate our future generations. True independence is what I seek for my people. Proud independence.’ His hand caressed the medallion as he spoke.
‘The medal means something?’ Colin guessed out loud.
Yarty folded the gleaming gold disc in his hand. ‘This medal means everything to my people. It is said that the soul of Osei Tutu, the Great Spirit of all Ashantis, dwells within it.’ His fingers moved to the reddish, almost copper-hued links of the chain. ‘Along with its chain, the medal of Osei Tutu is the history of the Ashanti nation. It is handed down, always to the Asantehene’s eldest son.’ He twisted a link in his fingers, letting the light play on a tracery of finely etched lines on its surface. ‘This link tells of our defeat of the Dagomba tribe and the annual tribute demanded thenceforth by the victorious Ashanti Nation. This one,’ his voice hardened, ‘tells of the great slave raids that decimated our nation. And this one …’ He looked into Colin’s eyes, ‘tells how 20,000 Ashanti warriors led by King Prempeh, legendary war hero of the Ashanti Nation, defeated the British army led by Sir Charles McCarthy and took his head at the battle of McCarthy Hill. Whenever something of great importance happens, it is recorded on this chain. Two links are forged in pure Ashanti gold so that the deed is never forgotten.’
‘Why two links?’ Colin asked. ‘Is there another chain … a sort of duplicate?’
‘No, no,’ Yarty laughed. ‘One link is for the chain, the other for the tribe, or warrior whose deed is recorded. It remains a token for life. They are greatly cherished and pass from father to son, from chief to chief.’
‘So only a chief can get a link?’
‘Any warrior whose deeds warrant a link in our history becomes a chief. Men of great deeds make great chiefs.’
The ‘No Smoking’ and ‘Fasten Seat Belts’ signs winked on above their heads and they checked their seat belts as the huge airliner rolled into motion. A few minutes later flight BA 220 was thundering down the runway to thrust itself steeply into a clear blue sky, outbound for Rome, Accra and Lagos.
‘You are staying at the cocoa mill?’ Yarty asked after the stewardess had served them with coffee.
‘Yes. With my uncle.’
‘Will you be travelling on to Takoradi this evening?’ Yarty raised eyebrows at him. ‘If not, Accra has some excellent night clubs.’
‘Actually, Yarty, I never thought to mention it, but I’m going on to Lagos.’
‘Lagos?’ Yarty looked at him in mild surprise.
‘Business for my uncle. He asked me to collect some important documents from the company’s agent there. Apparently they don’t think the postal service is reliable enough.’
Yarty nodded. ‘Yes … I can understand that. Everything has deteriorated, even the postal service. Pity though. I’m sure I could have shown you a thing or two of our night life in Accra.’
‘I’ll bet!’ Colin grinned at him. ‘Mind you, Takoradi has its places too.’
‘And its girls?’ Yarty gave him a sly look.
‘No bother,’ Colin winked, deliberately neglecting to mention Lesley’s colour. ‘Got a beautiful little chick stashed away. Really nice.’
‘All the comforts of home,’ Yarty smiled knowingly. ‘Still … I’m sure a night out in Accra would open your eyes.’
‘Some other time,’ Colin promised. ‘You could always look me up, or give me a ring sometime. If you’re still in Ghana, that is.’
‘Yes. We’ll leave it like that, Colin. I have some official functions to attend to in Takoradi fairly soon. If time permits I will look you up.’
They settled back in their seats, allowing the muted thunder of four powerful Rolls-Royce engines to lull them to sleep as the plane sped towards Africa.
Later, after disembarking some passengers at Accra, flight BA 220 terminated at Murtala Mohammed Airport, Lagos. Less than forty-eight hours after that, Colin walked down the gangplank at Takoradi harbour to be met by a smiling Lesley, the ‘cruise’ over, his plans for the Ashanti gold well and truly underway.
21
‘Aye, m’lad,’ George spoke to Colin as they strode down the short steep hill to the factory. ‘Keep working like this and we’ll need to be thinking about making it official.’
‘No, no,’ Colin waved his hand. ‘I like wandering about the factory and going down to the harbour with the cargo. But as long as it’s unofficial I can take all the time off I want. I’m happy with things just the way they are.’
‘You’ll soon know as much about the factory as I do,’ George laughed, ‘the way you keep poking around.’
‘Aye,’ Colin replied. ‘And today I think I’ll poke around in here,’ he turned off into the packing section. ‘I noticed some of the packages were a bit loose the other day.’
‘You better be careful or you’ll be needing a union card,’ George called over his shoulder as he walked on. ‘See you at tea break then.’
In the packing section Colin made his way to the weighing room where liquid cocoa butter was poured into stout, polythene-lined cardboard boxes. The workers greeted him with smiles, grinning good-naturedly as he practised pouring the butter himself until he had mastered the technique of cutting the flow at the precise weight. The African in charge gave him a look that said ‘Well done’ and took over again, showing off a little with the speed of his work. Eventually Colin made his way into a room behind a heavy canvas screen where two shivering workers were stacking the sealed cartons on to a trolley before wheeling them into a huge walk-in refrigerator. In less than an hour the cocoa butter would freeze as hard as candle-wax and be removed from the refrigerator to be sewn into hessian sacks – two cartons per sack – and stored in a massive cold-room to await transport to the docks, prior to shipment abroad.
Colin spent most of his morning studying the packaging process from start to finish. George was right – he would soon know as much about the business as him.
22
Three weeks had passed since his return from London and Colin had taken on the daily chore of collecting the mail from the town’s post office, hopefully checking the dozen or so envelopes each day for the letter he was looking for. At last he recognised the British Airways logo on an envelope and impatiently extracted its contents. Inside he found notification that the airline’s Accra freight services office had forwarded a crate to Takoradi for the Ghana Cocoa Company – to be collected by a Mr Colin Grant.
Anxious in case some zealous clerk at the airport telephoned the office, he drove straight to the cargo terminal. He had no difficulty, merely producing the letter to a clerk, who in return required him to sign a receipt for one wooden crate – Contents: Sports Equipment. Ten minutes later he was manhandling the crate into the garden shed behind his uncle’s bungalow, where he cut away the plastic ties and worried at its top with a heavy screwdriver. In a few moments he was inspecting three small suitcases and two tartan duffle bags crammed, sardine-like, inside the crate. He slipped the rope loose from one of the duffle bags to expose a web of canvas straps wrapped tightly round an olive-green bundle. Smiling in satisfaction, he turned to a wall calendar and checked the date – April 22nd. Less than three weeks to the big event. Time was closing fast and he still had to complete his preparations at the drop zone.
*
For the next two weeks he drove out to the abandoned village every
day, quite literally preparing the ground as he laid the foundations of his plan. Every afternoon he laboured at digging two long, back-breaking trenches in the awkward, gravelly soil and it took him two full days and over five gallons of paint – most of which went on the ground – to daub the gable end of the ruined building so that it stood out, sparkling white against the barren landscape. The finished job was a rough arrowhead, the trenches long barbs extending from the gleaming white gable pointing south towards the coast.
After a final tour of inspection he stood for a full minute, staring north at the line of hills rising out of the plain, his mind’s eye seeing the aircraft make its approach. Yes. He nodded to himself. Yes! It was going to happen. He would make it happen. They would steal the Ashanti gold.
*
A week before the fight he flew the gold route one more time, tense with excitement as the old Dakota rolled to a standstill outside the small terminal building at Kumasi. This was his last chance to see the gold before it fell into his hands at Uturri and he was anxious to confirm the procedure remained unchanged. There was an audible click as the intercom switched on.
‘This is the captain speaking,’ the pilot’s voice was smoothly professional. ‘Will passengers for Kumasi please leave the aircraft and make their way to the terminal building. I hope you had a pleasant flight and thank you for flying Ghana Airways.’
The announcement was slightly different, but Colin felt no cause for concern and confidently waited to be told to leave the plane. He watched the Kumasi contingent of passengers disembark and disappear inside the building. Still the intercom remained silent. A feeling of unease crept over Colin and he anxiously eyed the speaker, urging it to break into sound. The stupid pilot must have forgotten to pass on disembarking instruction. He wanted to stand up and leave, as if by doing so he would influence things, but he remained seated, groaning silently to himself, squeezing his eyes tight as he willed the pilot to speak. He turned to look at the stewardess, hoping she would smile and usher everyone towards the door. Instead, he saw her switch on a professional smile of welcome as the first of the boarding passengers appeared at the top of the steps and entered the plane.
Ashanti Gold Page 14