by E. M. DAVEY
A white Ford Transit van lumbered past, holding Jenny’s attention. She scrutinised a phalanx of Italian tourists, bristling with selfie sticks like hoplite warriors. A Chinese couple in wedding gear posed for a photographer.
Then again, there were always Chinese couples posing in wedding gear on Westminster Bridge.
“Things that have puzzled every historian of the source of the Nile explorers,” he said.
A man in kilt and sporran stood sentinel beneath Big Ben with his bagpipes. Listening to those entangled notes, Jake felt a spasm of pride for all Union had achieved: in commerce and invention, in democracy. In exploration.
The helicopter was over College Green now, boss-eyed in the air as it angled towards them.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Jenny.
They caught a black cab, ditched it; caught another, abandoned that too; sprinted around the block and clambered into her aunt’s flat through the kitchen window.
“Now then,” said Jenny. “You were saying something about Richard Burton?”
*
“Richard Burton, Nile explorer, lived 1821 to 1890. In a century of great British eccentrics, he was up there with the best.” Jake grinned. “Actually, that’s underplaying it. The man was a total wrong ’un.”
Jenny couldn’t help but smile.
Jake sought his Wikipedia page. “Striking chap, no?”
The face was fierce – dark hair, drooping moustache, eyes of ice that smouldered in his skull. There was something exotic about him, something of the Romany gypsy perhaps. An expression of scarcely-concealed menace was completed by scars on both cheeks.
“He was speared by a Somali tribesman,” said Jake. “And still made it back to his boat, the haft protruding from both sides of his face.”
“Tell me more.”
“Where to even start? Burton’s entire life was a whirlwind of salty behaviour. At fifteen he was busted for writing steamy letters to prostitutes. At nineteen he was smoking opium. On his first day at Oxford, he challenged a man to a duel. Next he became a spy in Pakistan, and there nothing was off limits. Bonking local girls, smoking bhang, diving into the homosexual brothels of Karachi … he even filed reports to his superiors on the relative merits and demerits of young boys versus eunuchs.”
“Good lord,” Jenny exclaimed.
“He said there was more to grab hold of with the former.”
“Good lord!”
“Next it was off to the Middle East to penetrate the innermost shrine of Mecca disguised as an Afghan Sufi, freshly circumcised, his skin stained with walnut juice. If he’d got caught, he was a dead man. He spoke twenty languages and wrote a translation of the Kama Sutra that was … provocative, by Victorian standards. I suppose he’d get called a troll today – but he was rakish and daring with it. ‘Ruffian Dick’, he was known as. He scandalised Victorian society to the point of combustion and did not give one single crap. Actually, he revelled in it. This was sex, drugs and exploration. Frankly, I almost admire the man.”
“He definitely sounds a bit rum,” she laughed. “But what’s Burton got to do with the Disciplina?”
Jake looked excitable. “What do you know about the hunt for the Nile’s source?”
“Only that Stanley found Livingstone, for some reason. And said, ‘Dr Livingstone I presume?’ Plus it was a Victorian obsession.”
“The quest for the source of the White Nile goes back to ancient times,” said Jake. “When Alexander the Great met soothsayers at Karnak Temple in Luxor he asked what causes the Nile to rise. The ancient Greek geographer Ptolemy wrote of twin sources near the ‘Mountains of the Moon’.”
A world map was on the kitchen wall and he traced the Nile south through Egypt to Sudan, where the mighty river split. The Blue Nile rises in Ethiopia, but the river’s more venerable source traces its heritage further, to Africa’s very core. A violent wilderness when Burton visited, from which civilisation had flowed.
“The Romans tried to reach the source and failed,” Jake continued.
“The mind-boggling fact is that in the Victorian age, a time of steamships and railways and the telegraph, we knew less about central Africa than the surface of Mars. Everyone who tried to penetrate it died of fever or was killed by wild animals or hacked to pieces by warring tribes. And yet, out of that unknown flowed the longest river on earth to arrive fully formed in Egypt, the very fulcrum of the British Empire. It’s like us not knowing where the M1 comes from.”
“Wow,” Jenny admitted.
“This is where the White Nile begins.” Jake pointed at the central African watershed. “The Great Lakes region. Although to call them lakes is pushing it. They’re really inland seas, albeit fresh water. Victorian explorers had heard of them from Arab slaving parties – the debate over which one fed the Nile was fierce. But to visit them meant years in the wild, laid up for months at a time with malaria or detained at the pleasure of a local king. Each lake had to be circumnavigated to see if a river flowed from it and followed until it indisputably became the Nile. David Livingstone reckoned it began at Lake Bangweulu, now in Zambia. Burton favoured Lake Tanganyika, the long thin one separating Tanzania and the Congo. But they were both wrong.” Jake indicated a tiny triangular country. “The true source is Burundi, flowing north into Lake Victoria. That lake feeds the Nile. And the discoverer of Lake Victoria was a bloke called John Hanning Speke – Burton’s assistant.”
“What’s the relevance of this receipt?”
“You’re Lord Palmerston. Ask yourself, where would you hide a text that’s so remote not even a Prime Minister could lay his hands on it? Somewhere beyond the ends of the earth. And a destination with a ready-made cover story to boot.”
The old Romans had a fable about a great wrestler, who when thrown upon the ground, mother earth gave additional vigour and he got up stronger.
“He had it buried there,” said Jake. “That’s where it was supposed to remain until Gladstone died, and a less pious Prime Minister took power. No doubt talk of it was handed down by word of mouth, in smoky Victorian drawing rooms. That’s how they ‘insured systematically’. That’s what Lord Randolph alluded to. Those were the ‘agreed additional activities’.”
The time may be at hand when the path of honour and safety is illuminated by the light of other days.
“And those were the rumours Winston Churchill remembered,” said Jenny. “When MI6 contacted him in 1941 about Hess and the ‘ancient Etruscan matter’.”
70
“But how do we know Burton’s our man?” said Jenny. “Many a Brit was hunting for the source of the Nile, right?”
“Indeed. But the evidence that Burton was Palmerston’s agent is insurmountable. Firstly, he was interested in the Etruscans. He actually inspected the Zagreb Linen, it’s documented fact. Secondly, there’s that begging letter from Burton we found in Randolph Churchill’s papers.”
Since the £300 a year to which I think I am entitled is hardly equivalent of years of hard work in anything but wholesome climates, I beg you to favour me by placing my name on the civil list for a pension of £300.
“Climates don’t get much more unwholesome than central Africa,” said Jake. “The man deserved a Rolex, a sailing boat and a gold-plated pension, I’d say. But finally, at a stroke all the mysteries of Burton’s African expedition are explained.”
“What mysteries?”
“Burton had publicly argued – incorrectly, as it happens – that the Nile’s true source was Lake Tanganyika. It took him and Speke months of horrific cross-country travel to get there and try to prove it. Burton nearly died from malaria, Speke almost lost his sight and went permanently deaf in one ear after a beetle crawled into it.”
“Right …”
“But they made it to Lake Tanganyika nonetheless, the first Europeans to set eyes on it. Then a local tribesman told them something sensational. At the north end of the lake was a major river. If this river flowed outwards, it looked a bloody good bet for the Nile. So
off they went by canoe, nineteen days of solid paddling. But according to Burton’s account, just six hours from the river, a chieftain told them the river flowed into Lake Tanganyika, not out of it. Ergo it couldn’t be the Nile. Now, what would you do in that position?”
“I’d continue on and check for myself,” said Jenny.
“Exactly. But they turned back. One of the great mysteries of exploration has been why Burton’s resolution wavered at this crucial moment, so close to his goal. Why not carry on for six more hours to see it with his own eyes? After all, the account of a savage was hardly going to be enough for the Royal Geographical Society.”
“Because that wasn’t really his goal,” whispered Jenny. “He was there to bury the Disciplina.”
Jake jabbed at Lake Tanganyika. “And that’s where we’ll find it.”
“But what was Burton’s excuse? Supposedly he was there to find the source. How did he explain the decision to go back home?”
“He claimed they were running short of ‘African money’ – the cloth and beads that expeditions used to pay their way with local tribes. That response has never stood up to scrutiny, as an Arab slaver they’d encountered had already proposed to supply them with more cloth and beads. For lack of any better explanation, historians have surmised that he simply wimped out. Which given Burton’s previous form seems somewhat unlikely. And another mystery is explained. The two explorers then heard about a huge uncharted lake to the north. But Burton, a lifelong glory hunter, didn’t bother to go and visit it. He let Speke go there alone. So it was Speke, not Burton, who discovered the true source of the Nile, which he named Lake Victoria.”
“I understand,” said Jenny. “Burton’s job was done, but he could have died at any moment. He needed to preserve himself – once Gladstone was gone, he might have to go back there and get it. Hunting for the Nile would have been reckless sightseeing by comparison.”
“And one final enigma is laid to rest,” said Jake. “After their journey, Burton and Speke fell out spectacularly. The bone of contention was ‘whose’ lake was the source of the Nile. Was it Lake Tanganyika, claimed by Burton as the leader of the expedition there? Or Lake Victoria, which Speke discovered alone? Nobody could say conclusively, because neither lake had been circumnavigated. So a showdown was arranged – the Great Nile Debate. Speke and Burton would slug it out with their theories in a public hall. It caused a sensation, even the great Livingstone attended for good measure. Only it never happened.”
“Why not?”
“Because the morning of the debate, Speke was killed.”
*
“Killed?” Jenny exclaimed. “How?”
“In what we hacks like to call ‘mysterious circumstances’. Speke was a passionate hunter, and the morning of the debate he was on a grouse shoot. Allegedly he dropped his shotgun while clambering over a drystone wall, and blasted himself in the chest. He died within the hour. This guy had shot game in deepest Africa, manhandled firearms through the most evil swamps and jungles on the planet without mishap. And he shoots himself dead climbing over a wall in a country estate? Somehow, I don’t think so.”
Jenny took this in.
“The argument’s raged for a century,” said Jake. “Was it an accident? Or was Speke so worried about the debate that he committed suicide? But now we know. It was Burton who killed him. Or more likely, some agent of the Foreign Office acting on his behalf. Because Speke was about to spill the beans on Burton’s real reason for being in Africa.”
Jake thought of the mural over the Foreign Secretary’s door. The hood of a seer, an empty scroll.
Silence.
She sends her sons into distant lands.
“What if Burton had died in Africa?” said Jenny. “The Disciplina would have been lost forever.”
“But therein was the genius,” said Jake. “All the Nile explorers wrote a stream of journals and letters that were sent back to Zanzibar via Arab slaving parties and on to London. The idea was that any geographical discoveries would be recorded in the event that they did die. If Burton had snuffed it, his diaries would have got to the Royal Geographical Society sooner or later, with its close links to the Foreign Office.”
Jenny’s little finger was tapping on the kitchen table and her collar bones heaved up and down with agitation. He had always considered her stronger than him, but something in the quickness of her breath – this compulsion to find it – spoke of weakness.
“And do you know what else?” said Jake. “Nobody’s ever seen Burton’s original journals from that expedition. Because his widow destroyed them after he died.”
“But how do we know Lord Randolph didn’t follow through with the plan?” said Jenny. “How do we know Burton didn’t exhume the Disciplina in the 1880s?”
“History’s your answer there. The Foreign Office used to run the world – it hardly has much swagger nowadays, does it? Despite the best efforts of the Prime Minister. If Burton had dug up the Disciplina as per the plan, Britain would still rule the waves.”
“Strange,” Jenny mused, “that the book should end up in Africa again. The Romans had already hidden that very same copy in Egypt, when Hannibal was on the march. Three centuries later, Eusebius would send another to Ethiopia for safe-keeping.”
“It’s almost as though it was drawn there.” Jake stared at the map. “Where man first began.”
For the first time, he saw how the continent resembled a human skull in profile. The bulge of West Africa was the occipital bone, the twin protrusions of the Mozambique coast were the nose and mouth and the bight of Tanzania was the eye socket. Lake Victoria was the eye itself.
“We have to go there,” muttered Jenny.
71
“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” asked the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee.
C answered with a curt half-shake of his head and the chiefs of MI5 and GCHQ followed suite.
“In that case, let’s get to it. Good luck, everybody.”
There was a rustling of papers and the committee shuffled from the egg-shaped room deep within the Cabinet Office. The Wednesday afternoon meeting was always a serious affair, but today something else could be detected amongst the all-male group of spies, military advisers and civil servants. Excitement. They were embarking upon a war.
C remained seated, and as Sir Mark Hellier manoeuvred past he raised a finger. The spymaster waited until they were alone, whereupon the Prime Minister walked in with Evelyn Parr.
“This is one of my top people,” said C. “She’s been through your statement. She’s going to tell you something.”
“I want my minister to be here,” Sir Mark began, but Milne thumped the table and all the glassware rattled.
“Just listen to her, will you?” he shouted.
Spilt water spread across the mahogany, like an expanding empire.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” said Sir Mark.
“You fell into an intelligence trap,” said Parr coldly. “You were meant to overhear Frobisher. And while you and the minister were at that dratted drinks reception, Wolsey got into his office. He gained access to his red boxes.”
Sir Mark’s face had turned redder with each word.
“I tender my resignation,” he said.
“Oh do can it, you twit,” said Milne.
“They saw that file you requested,” said Parr. “And got away.”
Water was dripping onto Sir Mark’s knees.
“This is the worst security breach since the Cambridge spy ring,” observed C mildly.
The diplomat was rigid in his chair, water spreading up his thigh. “What now?”
“Now nothing,” said Milne. “We’ve had quite enough scandals in the Secret Intelligence Service for one decade. Don’t resign, whatever you do. Stay put for eighteen months, and if we get away with it we’ll fob you off with early retirement.”
“But if this does get out, god help you,” muttered C. “You’ll be thrown you to the wolves.”
&
nbsp; “A prosecution and the loss of your knighthood, at the very least,” said Milne. “Now get out.”
Sir Mark departed unsteadily, handing himself from chair to chair.
“That should shut him up,” said C.
Milne was already roaming around the room, touching the walls, peering into a pot plant in search of bugs. Like many Prime Ministers, contact with the Secret Services brought out the schoolboy in him.
“So, the famous Jic.” He pronounced it as a single word, as is intelligence custom. “Nice to glimpse the reality behind the mystique. Why were they interested in Palmerston?”
“We don’t know,” said C.
“What are these ‘agreed additional activities’?”
“We don’t know that either.”
A buzz at the door. “Call for Evelyn Parr …”
Parr left the room to take it – the walls were made of lead and five feet thick.
She returned seconds later. “Our friends Jamila Ahmed and Dr Robin Matthews have just booked flights to Tanzania.”
Milne sat heavily, ransacking his hair with both hands. “Please can somebody explain to me why this ruddy duo are constantly two steps ahead of us?”
“It’s Wolsey,” said C. “He’s good. And she’s good at keeping him alive.”
“Then you’d better get out there and give her some help. Until we’ve worked out what their hunch is, anyway. And take – oh, what’s his name? That Sierra Leone chappie who’s doing such good work. The explorer man.”
“You can go now, Evelyn,” said C.
She departed.
“You mean Serval,” said C. “I was about to send him back to Sierra Leone, actually. For the – the next stage.”
“But it’s the same project. Don’t you realise that, Dennis? Obtaining the Disciplina, our West African imbroglio. It’s the same damned thing.” Milne was smiling again. “I think I’ve done pretty respectably so far in that part of the world actually, considering my successes have come from nothing but opportunism and muddling through, in the grand British tradition. With a dash of ruthlessness on the side. A bit like how the original empire was built.” He smiled sadly. “When India became independent, the empire lost four-fifths of its citizens at a stroke of a pen. Nowadays she’s a country of a billion.”