by Wilbur Smith
Now he was seeing the same expression, an emotion so murderous and unspeakably evil that he drew back involuntarily.
It lasted only an instant, but it seemed that the entire face changed, from extravagant beauty to grotesque ugliness and back to beauty in the time it takes to draw breath.
Dirk's voice, when he spoke, was measured and controlled, the eyes veiled and the expression of polite indifference. Anders? I've heard the name before He thought for a moment as though trying to place it, and then dismissed it as unimportant, his attention returning to the Thomas Baines painting above the fireplace, but in that instant Mark had learned with complete certainty that the vague, unformed suspicions he had harboured so long were based on hard cold fact. He knew now beyond any doubt that something evil had happened, that the sale of Andersland and the old man's death and burial in an unmarked grave were the result of deliberate planning, and that the men who had hunted him on the Ladyburg escarpment and again in the wilderness beyond Chaka's Gate were all part of a design engineered by this man.
He knew that at last he had identified his adversary, yet to hunt him down and bring him to retribution was to be a task that might be beyond his capability, for the adversary seemed invincible in his strength and power.
He turned away to tidy the pile of documents on the General's desk, not trusting himself to look again at his enemy, lest he betray himself completely.
Already he had exposed himself dangerously, but it had been necessary, an opportunity too heaven-sent to allow to pass. in exchange for exposing himself he had forced his enemy to do the same, he had forced him into the open, and he counted himself the winner in the exchange.
There was another factor now that had made his exposure less than suicidal. Whereas before he had been friendless and alone, now he was protected by his mere association with Sean Courtney.
If they had succeeded that night on the Ladyburg escarpment or again at Chaka's Gate, it would be the unimportant passing of a rootless vagrant; now his death or disappearance would rouse the immediate attention of General Courtney, and he doubted if even Dirk Courtney could afford that risk.
Mark looked up quickly from the papers, and Dirk Courtney was watching him again, but now his expression was neutral and his eyes were hooded and guarded. He began to speak, but checked himself as they heard the heavy dragging tread in the passage and they both turned expectantly to the door as it was flung open.
Sean Courtney seemed to fill the entire doorway, the top of the great shaggy head almost touching the lintel and the shoulders wide as the cross-trees of a gallows as he leaned both hands on the head of his cane and glared into the room.
His eyes went immediately to the tall elegant figure that rose from the leather armchair, the craggy sun-browaed features darkening with blood as he recognized him.
The two men confronted each other silently, and Mark found himself a fascinated spectator, as he followed intuitively the play of emotions, the reawakening of the memory of ancient wrongs, and of the elemental love and affection of son for father and father for son that had long ago been strangled and buried, but were now exhumed like some loathsome rotting corpse, more horrible for once having lived and been strong. Hello, Father, Dirk Courtney spoke first, and at the sound of his voice, the rigidity went out of Sean's shoulders, and the anger out of his eyes to be replaced by a sense of sadness, of regret for something that once had value but was lost beyond hope, so his question sounded like a sigh.
Why do you come here? Can we speak alone, without strangers? Mark left the desk and crossed to the door, but Sean stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. There are no strangers here. Stay, Mark. it was the kindest thing that anybody had ever said to Mark Anders, and the strength of the affection he felt for Sean Courtney at that moment was greater than he had ever felt for another human being.
Dirk Courtney shrugged, and smiled for the first time, a light faintly mocking smile. You were always too trusting, Father. Sean nodded as he crossed heavily to the chair behind his desk. Yes, and who should remember that better than you. Dirk's smile faded. I came here hoping that we might forget, that we might look for forgiveness from each other. Forgiveness? Sean asked, looking up quickly. You will grant me forgiveness, for what? You bred me, Father. I am what you made me-Sean shook his head, denying it, and would have spoken, but Dirk stopped him. You believe I have wronged you, but I know that you have wronged me.
Sean scowled. You talk in Circles. Come to the point.
What do you want that brings you uninvited to this house? I am your son. It is unnatural that we should be parted. Dirk was eloquent and convincing, holding out his hands in a gesture of supplication, moving closer to the massive figure at the desk. I believe I have the right to your consideration - he broke off and glanced at Mark. God damn it, can't I speak to you without this gawking audience? Sean hesitated a moment, was on the point of asking Mark to leave, and then remembered the promise he had made to Ruth only minutes before. Don't let him be alone with you for a moment, Sean. Promise me you will keep Mark with you. I don't trust him, not at all. He is evil, Sean, and he brings trouble and unhappiness, I can smell it on him. Don't be alone with him. No. He shook his head. If you have something to say, get it over with. If not, go, and leave us in peace here. All right, no more sentiment, Dirk nodded, and the role of the supplicant dropped from him. He turned and began to stride up and down the study floor, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. I'll talk business, and get it over with. You hate me now, but when we have worked together, when I have shared with you the boldest and most imaginative venture this land has ever known, then we will talk again of sentiment.
Sean was silent. As a business man now and as a son later. Do you agree? I hear you, said Sean, and Dirk began to talk.
Even Mark could not but stand in admiration of Dirk Courtney's eloquence, and the winning and persuasive manner in which he used his fine deep voice and his magnificent good looks; but these were theatrical tricks, well rehearsed and stagey.
What was spontaneous was the burning, almost fanatical glow of commitment to his own ideas which radiated from him as he talked and gestured. it was easy to believe him, for he so clearly believed himself.
Using his hands and his voice, he conjured up before his father a vast empire, endless expanses of rich land, thousands upon thousands o square miles, a treasure the like of which few men had ever conceived, planted to cotton and sugar and maize, watered by a gigantic dam that would hold back an inland sea of sweet, fresh water it was a dream quite breathtaking in its scope and sweep. I have half of the land already, Dirk paused and cupped his hands with fingers stiff and grasping as the talons of an eagle, here in my hands. It's mine. No longer a dream. And the rest of it? Sean asked reluctantly, swept along on the torrent against his will. It's there, untouched, ripe, ready. Dirk paused dramatically. It is as though nature had designed it all for just this purpose. The foundations of the dam are there, built by God as though as a blessing. So? Sean grunted sceptically. Now you are an instrument of God's will, are you? And where is this empire he has promised you? I own all the land south of the Unikorno River, that is the half I have already. He stopped in front of the mahogany desk and leaned forward with his hands onthepolished wood, thrusting a face that glowed with the aura of a religious fanatic towards Sean Courtney. We will build a dam between the cliffs of Chaka's Gate and dam the whole of the Bubezi Valley, a lake one hundred and sixty miles long and a hundred wide, and we'll open the land between there and the Umkomo River and add it to the land I already own in the south. Two million acres of arable and irrigated land! Think of that! Mark stared at Dirk Courtney, utterly appalled by what he had just heard, and then his gaze switched to Sean Courtney, appealingly, wanting to hear him reject the whole monstrous idea.
That's tsetse belt, said Sean Courtney at last. Father, in Germany three men, Dressel, Kothe and Rochl, have just perfected and tested a drug called Germanin. It's a complete cure for tsetse-borne sleeping-sicknes
s. It's so secret still that only a handful of men know about it, Dirk told him eagerly, and then went on, Then we will wipe out the tsetse fly in the whole valley. How? Sean asked, and his genuine interest was evident. From the air. Flying machines spraying pythagra extract, or other insect-killers. It was a staggering concept, and Sean was silent a moment before he asked reluctantly, Has it been done before? No Dirk smiled at him. But we will do it! You've thought it out, Sean lay back in his chair and groped absently in the humidor for a cigar, except for one little detail. The Bubezi Valley is a proclaimed area, has been since the time of Chaka, and most of the other ground between the Bubezi and Nkomo Rivers is either tribal trust land, Crown land or forestry reserve. Dirk Courtney lifted a finger at Mark. Get me another brandy, boy. Mark glanced at the General. Sean nodded slightly, and there was silence again while Mark poured the brandy and brought the glass to Dirk. You trust him? Dirk asked his father again, indicating Mark with his head as he accepted the glass. Get on with it, man, snapped Sean irritably, not bothering to answer the question. Dirk saluted his father with the cut-glass tumber and smiled knowingly. You make the laws, Father, you and your friends in the Cabinet and in the Provincial Assembly, and you can change them. That's your end of the bargain. Sean had drawn a swelling chestful of cigar smoke as Dirk spoke, and now he let it trickle out so that his head was wreathed in drifting blue smoke as he replied. Let's get this clear. You put up the money and I force through Parliament legislation repealing the proclamation of these lands we need between Nkomo and the Bubezi Rivers? And the Bubezi Valley, Dirk cut in. And the Bubezi Valley. Then I arrange that some front company gets control of that land, even if it's only on a thousand year ground rental? Dirk nodded. Yes, that's it. What about the cost of the dam and the new railroad to the dam, have you got that type of capital? Mark could hardly believe what he was hearing, that Sean Courtney was haggling over the assets of the nation, treasures that had been entrusted to him as a high representative of the people. He wanted to shout out, to lash out at them as they schemed. The deep affection he had felt moments before turned slowly to a deep sense of outrage and betrayal. Nobody has that type of capital, Dirk told him. I've had my people work out a rough estimate, and there will be little change left out of four million pounds. No individual has that sort of money. So? Sean asked, the wreaths of cigar smoke drifted away from his head and it seemed to Mark that he had aged suddenly. His face was grey and haggard, the deep-set eyes turned by a trick of the light into the dark empty eyesockets of a skull. The Government will build them for us, and Dirk chuckled richly, as he resumed his pacing. Or rather, they'll build dam and railway for the nation. To open up valuable natural resources. Dirk chuckled again. And imagine the prestige of the man that shepherds these measures through Parliament, the man who brings progress and civilization into the wilderness. He picked up the brandy glass and tossed off half the contents. It would all be named after him, the Sean Courtney Dam perhaps? It sounds impressive. A fitting monument, Father. Dirk lifted the glass to his father. But what of the tribal lands, Dirk? Sean used his son's name for the first time, Mark noticed, and glanced sharply at him.
We'll move the blacks out, Dirk told him casually. Find a place for them in the hills. And the game reserves? Good God, are we going to let a few wild animals stand in the way of a hundred million pounds? He shook the handsome head of curls in mock dismay. Before we flood the valley, you can take a hunting safari there. You always did enjoy the hunt, didn't you? I remember you telling me about the big elephant hunts in the old days. Yes, Sean nodded heavily. I killed a lot of elephants. o, Father, we are agreed then? Dirk stopped once more before Sean, and there was for the first time an anxious air, a small frown of worry puckering his bold high forehead. Do we work together? Sean was silent for seconds longer, staring at the blotter on his desk-top, then he raised his head slowly and he looked sick and very old. What you have told me, the sheer size of it all has taken me completely by surprise. He spoke carefully, measuring each word. It's big and it's going to take guts, Dirk agreed. But you have never been frightened before, Father. You told me once, if you want something, go out and get it for one thing is sure as all hell, nobody is going to bring it to you. "I am older now, Dirk, and a man grows tired, loses the strength of his youth. You're as strong as a bull. I want time to think about it. How long? Dirk demanded. Until, Sean faltered, and thought a moment, until after the next parliamentary sessions. I will need to speak to people, examine the feasibility of the whole idea. It's too long, Dirk scowled, and suddenly the face was no more beautiful, the eyes changed, coming together into a mean ferrety look. It's the time I needAll right, I Dirk agreed, and thrust the scowl aside, smiling down at the massive seated figure. He began the gesture of putting out his right hand, but Sean did not look up and instead he thrust the hand back into his overcoat pocket. I am neglecting my guests, said Sean softly. You must excuse me now. Mark will see you out. You will let me know? Dirk demanded. Yes, said Sean heavily, still not looking up. I will let you know. Mark led Dirk Courtney down to the front doors, and he felt feverish with anger and hatred for him. They walked in silence, side by side, and Mark fought the wild, dark and violent impulses that kept sweeping over him. He hated him for having tarnished the man he had respected and worshipped, for having smeared him with his own filth.
He hated him for the old man and for Andersland, and for the dreadful but unknown deeds he had ordered, and he hated him for what he was about to do to that beloved land beyond Chaka's Gate.
At the front doors, Dirk Courtney took his hat from the table and adjusted it over his eyes as he studied Mark carefully. I am a good friend to have, he said softly. My father trusts you, and I am sure he confides in you. You would find me grateful and generous, and I am sure that, since you overheard our conversation, you will know what small items of information might interest me. Mark stared at him. His lips felt numb and cold, and his whole body trembled with the effort it took to control himself. He did not trust his own voice to speak.
Dirk Courtney turned away abruptly, not bothering with his reply and he strode lightly down the front steps into the night.
Mark stared after him long after he disappeared. There was the crackling snarl of a powerful engine, the crunch of gravel under spinning wheels, and the twin beams of headlights swept the garden, and were gone.
Mark's feet kept pace with the furious rush of his anger, and he was almost running when he reached the General's study. Without knocking, he pushed open the door.
Words threatened to explode out of him, bitter condemnation, accusation and rejection, and he looked to the General's desk, but it was empty.
He was going to warn the General that he would use any means to expose the foul bargain that had been proposed that evenin& he was going to voice his disillusion, his horror that Sean Courtney had even listened to it, let alone given it serious thought and the half-promise of his support.
The General stood at the window, his back to the room and the wide square shoulders slumped. He seemed to have shrunk in size. General, Mark's voice was harsh, strident with his anger and determination, I am leaving now, and I won't be coming back. But before I go, I want to tell you that I will fight you and your son -Sean Courtney turned into the room, his shoulders still drooped and his head held at a listening angle, like that of a blind man, and Mark's voice trailed away, his fury evaporating. Mark? Sean Courtney asked, as though he had forgotten his existence, and Mark stared at him, not believing what he was seeing, for Sean Courtney was weeping.
Bright tears had swamped and blinded his eyes and streamed down the lined and sun-scared cheeks, clinging in fat bright droplets to the coarse curls of his beard. It was one of the most distressing sights Mark had ever witnessed, so harrowing that he wanted to turn away from in it but could not. Get me a drink, son. Sean Courtney crossed heavily towards his desk and one of his tears fell to the starched snowy front of his dress shirt, leaving a wet mark on the material.
Mark turned away, and
made a show of selecting a glass and pouring whisky from the heavy decanter. He drew the simple act out and when he turned back Sean Courtney was at his desk.
He held a crumpled white handkerchief in his hand that had damp patches on it, but although his cheeks were dry now, the rims of his eyelids were pink and inflamed and the marvelous sparkling blue clarity of his eyes was dulled with swimming liquid. Thank you, Mark, he said as he set the glass on the desk in front of him. Sean did not touch the glass but stared at it, and when he spoke his voice was low and husky. I brought him into the world with my own hands, there was no doctor, I caught him in my own hands still wet and warm and slippery, and I was proud. I carried him on my shoulder, and taught him to talk and ride and shoot. There are no words to explain what a man feels for his first-born son, Sean sighed, a broken gusty sound. I mourned for him once before, I mourned him as though he was dead, and that was many years ago. He drank a little of the whisky and then went on softly, so softly that Mark could hardly hear the words. Now he comes back and forces me to mourn him again, all over again. I am sorry, General. I thought, I believed that you were going to, bargain with him. That thought dishonours me. Sean did not raise his voice nor his eyes. Leave me now, please Mark. We'll talk about this again at some other time. At the door Mark looked back, but the General was not aware of his presence. His eyes were still misty, and seemed to stare at a far horizon. Mark closed the door very softly.
Despite Sean Courtney's promise to discuss Dirk Courtney's proposition again, long weeks went by without even the mention of his name. However, though the life at Ernoyeni seemed to continue in its busy round, yet there were times when Mark entered the panelled and booklined study to find the General brooding darkly at his desk, beak-nosed and morbid as some roosting bird of prey, and he withdrew quietly, respecting his melancholy, knowing he was still in mourning. Mark realized it would take time before he was ready to talk.