by Wilbur Smith
Makori nodded. ‘That is correct.’
‘And a bar to it, too . . .’
The DCM was the second-highest award for gallantry that a soldier below officer rank could win, only bettered by the Victoria Cross, and Makori had won it twice over.
‘Might I ask how you came by them?’
Makori gave a modest shrug. ‘I was in the King’s African Rifles during the East Africa Campaign – that was where I got the medal. They gave me the bar in the Far East. By then I’d been transferred to the Chindits. I’d served under Wingate in Abyssinia and he took me with him.’
Makori hadn’t given any details of what he’d actually done. Perhaps he was too modest to brag about himself, or he just didn’t want to relive painful memories. Either way, Saffron knew enough not to press him any further.
‘Well, now I’m the one who’s impressed,’ she said.
She was beginning to get an idea now of why Stannard had wanted to introduce the two of them. The Chindits, or Long Range Penetration Groups, went deep behind Japanese lines to carry out surprise attacks and sabotage the enemy’s lines of communication. Though they were uniformed soldiers, rather than spies, the Chindits were not entirely unlike the Special Operations Executive, just as Brigadier Orde Wingate, their unconventional – sometimes controversial – commanding officer, was cut from a similar cloth to Brigadier Gubbins.
‘You know it’s a rare treat to see Sergeant Makori here in Nairobi. Most of the time he’s up country,’ Stannard said, as if reading Saffron’s mind. ‘I wanted to introduce the two of you, thought you might be interested in having a chinwag, as it were, because although you come from very different . . . ah, backgrounds, you share a similar sort of . . . how can one put it? . . . professional expertise.’
Saffron couldn’t resist a little gentle teasing.
‘Really? I’m sure I don’t know the slightest thing about being a policeman.’
‘Well, no, dare say you don’t . . . quite so,’ Stannard floundered.
Makori stepped smoothly into the breach.
‘What Mr Stannard means, Mrs Courtney Meerbach, is that you are a legend in this country for your mission into Occupied Europe during the war and I . . .’ He paused. ‘I have to be careful what I say . . .’
‘I’m familiar with the need for security,’ Saffron assured him.
‘Then I will say that I too work in enemy territory, but nothing compared to what you have done.’
‘Now, now, Sergeant, you’re selling yourself short.’ Stannard looked around to make sure that none of the waiters were in the vicinity, then in a low voice said, ‘He’s the absolute scourge of the Mau Mau, Mrs Courtney Meerbach. Goes deep into the forest, walks right into their camps, cool as you like, acting like he’s one of them, and comes back with extraordinarily useful intelligence material.’
‘I must say, you don’t look much like an evil terrorist, Sergeant,’ Saffron said. ‘I’m amazed that the Mau Mau don’t take one look at a clean-cut chap like you and say, “Now there’s a copper.”’
Makori laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, ma’am, I look very different when I work undercover. You would not recognise me.’
‘He’s absolutely serious, Mrs—’ Stannard began.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ronald, do call me Saffron.’
‘Ah, yes, quite . . . Well . . . Saffron . . . Makori’s exploits really are remarkable. He and his people are known as the pseudos, because they pretend to be Mau Maus. A few of them actually were the real thing, but they’ve come over to our side.’
‘Really? What makes them change sides?’
‘Discovering that they’ve been lied to,’ Makori said. ‘It takes time to win them over. Many remain loyal. But some, often those who were the most fanatical before, realise that they were misled. Their cause is not invincible. Their god is not on their side. And once that happens, they feel anger towards those who misled them. Then they are great fighters for our cause.’
‘And you are the one who turns them?’ Saffron asked.
‘I have to be, or else they would not follow me.’
‘I must say, I’m very glad that Ronald introduced us, Sergeant. I can see why Wingate regarded you so highly.’
‘I can assure you that the governor feels the same way,’ Stannard said. ‘One of those gongs on Sergeant Makori’s shirt is the Colonial Police Medal for Gallantry. And I’ve heard whispers that the governor has put his name forward for the George Medal, which would give you both another common denominator.’
‘Please, Mr Stannard, that really is going too far!’ Makori protested.
‘It may be indiscreet, I grant you, but you’ve got a damn good chance and no one would deserve it more. Anyway, I think I’ll leave you two to it,’ Stannard concluded, dabbing his glistening face with a white handkerchief. ‘Henderson won’t be happy if I’m not seen to be mingling.’
‘Of course, Ronald, that’s quite all right,’ Saffron said. ‘We can look after ourselves, can’t we, Sergeant?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am, we certainly can.’
Lady Virginia Osterley was the young, blonde, very beautiful and very, very frustrated wife of a wealthy peer whose family required him to produce an heir, but who was not, by choice, a lover of women. When the inactivity on her wedding night made it plain that she was never going to get any more marital sex than the bare minimum required to produce a male baby, she and her husband had come to a very secret agreement. Since each provided something that the other needed, and they got on perfectly well in every respect other than sex, they would remain married. They would both turn blind eyes to one another’s private activities, provided that they remained private.
‘And if someone else can give you a boy,’ Lord Leggett had added, ‘I have no objection, so long as he can plausibly be raised as my son, and neither he, nor anyone else ever, ever discovers that I am not the father.’
‘Agreed,’ Virginia had replied, before setting off on a discreet, but determined hunt for lovers who might also be suitable sires for her child. With that in mind, she had fallen on Gerhard like a hungry lioness on a lone wildebeest.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have the most amazing eyes?’ she asked, gazing at him adoringly. ‘I think they’re sort of grey, like a pebble, but sometimes they look blue, or even green, depending on the light. They’re quite extraordinary.’
‘Thank you,’ Gerhard replied. ‘People have said that, yes . . . about the changing colour, I mean.’
‘And is it really true that you were a Luftwaffe ace?’
‘Yes,’ he said, a little curtly this time, because as much as he might joke about his past with Saffron, this really wasn’t a subject he regarded as suitable tea-party chit-chat.
‘And that you rebelled against Hitler and were sent to one of those beastly camps?’
He nodded. The only thing he liked to relive less than his combat missions on the Russian Front was his time at Sachsenhausen and Dachau.
‘I’m sorry,’ Virginia said, showing more perceptiveness than he’d given her credit for. ‘I’m sure these aren’t subjects you like to discuss. I don’t blame you really. Must have been utterly beastly.’
Gerhard softened a little. Here was a young woman, plainly desperate for the company of a real man, for all Kenya knew her husband’s so-called secret. She meant no harm.
‘Utterly,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘So hellish, in fact, that I very much hope that you could not even imagine the things that I have seen . . . and endured.’
‘Oh . . .’ she said, taken aback by the fact that he so obviously meant what he said.
‘Which is why that is the very last thing we should talk about.’
The crowd behind Virginia parted for a moment. Across the other side of the marquee, Gerhard spotted Saffron, deep in conversation with a man in a police uniform – a tall, very handsome, Kenyan man with whom, Gerhard knew, just by the posture of her body and the angle of her head, h
is wife was very taken indeed.
For the first time in his married life, Gerhard felt a sudden sharp shock of jealousy. For an instant he felt like striding across to the two of them and letting them know what he thought of their little display. But he knew right away that he would only be making a fool of himself. And while Saffron might be attracted to another man, particularly when he was so plainly attractive, Gerhard had faith that she would not act upon that feeling.
‘Gerhard?’ Virginia said, dragging him back to his immediate surroundings. ‘Are you all right?’
He held his hands up in apology. ‘I’m so sorry, I was miles away.’
‘Is it my fault, for bringing back terrible memories?’
‘Not at all . . . I’m entirely to blame.’
And, Gerhard decided, I’m entirely within my rights to enjoy a little flirtation of my own.
‘Come now,’ he said, linking his arm with Virginia’s. ‘Let’s go and find champagne to drink, and cake to eat. And let’s only talk about things that are cheerful, and bring pleasure into our lives. For example, that is a very pretty dress that you are wearing.’
Virginia smiled happily, and pulled her body a little closer to Gerhard’s. She was wearing a heady oriental scent that reminded him of a girl called Helene, whom he’d loved very much when he was a student at the Bauhaus.
My God, that was almost twenty years ago!
He remembered the name now: Shalimar by Guerlain – he’d bought her a bottle for Christmas.
‘Oh, this little thing,’ Virginia said. ‘It was made for me in London by Norman Hartnell. He’s such a sweet old thing.’ She fixed her big baby-blue eyes on his and added, ‘But honestly, Gerhard, I’m sure there are simply oodles of things that are much more interesting, and much, much more fun to talk about than that . . .’
Makori had waited a moment or two, to let Stannard get away and then, as if making idle cocktail party conversation, said, ‘I believe we have acquaintances in common. From the clinic at the Burma Market.’
As casually as the line was delivered, Saffron sensed that there was a deeper purpose behind the question.
‘You mean, Benjamin and Wangari?’ she replied.
Makori nodded.
Saffron smiled. ‘They’re hardly acquaintances! Benjamin’s part of the family.’ She caught the puzzled frown on Makori’s face and said, ‘His father, Chief Manyoro, is my father’s blood brother, his oldest, dearest friend. They’ve been as close as two horns on the same buffalo for the past thirty-five years.’
‘A white man . . . and a Maasai?’
‘Why not? Isn’t that how the world should be – people being friends without worrying what races they come from?’
‘Yes, it should be,’ Makori agreed, with a sad smile. ‘But it very seldom is.’
‘Well, be that as it may, my father thinks of Benjamin as his nephew. He put him through medical school in England.’
‘So, your father is Leon Courtney, from Lusima?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Makori gave a thoughtful nod of the head. ‘In Abyssinia, there were men in my unit who came from Lusima. They used to boast about how good life was under Bwana Courtney, how he let them make lots of money and gave them land for their sons, so that they could start their own families. I remember how I wished other white bwanas could be like that. But now I think that even though the people of Lusima have roofs over their heads and food in their bellies—’
Saffron finished the sentence. ‘My father still owns the land, and they do not.’
Makori shrugged in acknowledgement. For all his bravery, all his service to the Crown, still he had to be careful before expressing an opinion that many white people would consider grossly impertinent. Saffron, however, was not one of those people.
‘That’s Benjamin’s argument, too,’ she said. ‘No amount of prosperity means anything if the people aren’t masters of their own land, their own destiny.’
‘And what do you say?’
‘I think you’re both right. I never used to. I don’t suppose I thought about it, to be honest. I mean, all the people who worked for us seemed to be happy, and I knew that Father really cared for them, so I couldn’t see anything wrong with it.’
‘And what changed your mind?’
‘Well, this rebellion for a start. I can’t abide the things we’re doing to the Kikuyu. And, well, the whole idea of the empire seems to belong to another age . . .’ Saffron stopped as a thought occurred to her. ‘Does Benjamin know what you do? Does he know you work for us against the Mau Mau?’
‘Yes – and so does a man that he and I both admire . . .’ Makori looked right at her. ‘Perhaps we should continue this conversation outside, where we can be more private?’
In other circumstances, Saffron would have taken that as a pass, been very tempted to say ‘Yes,’ but then have made herself decline the offer. But she knew full well that there was no sexual intent in the invitation. Still she hesitated. She didn’t want Gerhard to see her with the ultimate tall, dark, handsome stranger and be needlessly concerned. Although, come to think of it, where was Gerhard? Saffron scanned the marquee, but instead of spotting her husband, her eyes alighted on Henderson. He was talking to Stannard, or rather, at him, angrily.
As if sensing her gaze, Henderson turned and glared at Saffron. That made up her mind. She wasn’t in the least bothered about upsetting him.
‘Good idea,’ she said, with a happy smile on her face. ‘It would be nice to get a breath of fresh air.’
The lawns of Government House were much less crowded than the marquee. Makori led Saffron to a spot beneath the branches of a Meru oak tree, which was private enough to allow them to talk, and yet sufficiently visible to ensure that there could be no malicious gossip about them disappearing into the bushes.
‘I presume you were referring to Kenyatta?’ Saffron said. Makori nodded. ‘Well, there’s another reason I think our time here will soon be up. I mean, carting him off to some sort of jumped-up kangaroo court to denounce him as the leader of the Mau Mau rebellion. It’s such an obviously desperate, stupid thing to do, when he is patently no such thing.’
Makori smiled. ‘You should lead his defence. What court could resist you?’
Saffron laughed. ‘Sorry, I get a bit carried away sometimes. But here’s what I don’t understand. You plainly believe in Kenyan independence. But you’re risking your life in the service of the people who are trying to prevent it, and horribly mistreating your own people while they’re at it. It doesn’t make sense – unless you’re a plant, I suppose, Kenyatta’s inside man . . . But you’d hardly tell me if you were.’
‘I will do better than that. I will tell you the truth.’
‘That, of course, is the very first thing a liar would say,’ said Saffron, in a tone that, she realised, was altogether too close to flirtatious, for try as she might, she could not help the fact that Maku Makori was a man who made her feel very, very much like a woman. Once again, she controlled herself and much more matter-of-factly added, ‘But I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Tell me your truth.’
‘It’s very simple. First, I am not a Kikuyu. I am a Kisii. So I am as different from a Kikuyu as a Scotsman is from an Englishman. But I am also Kenyan and, most of all, I am a policeman.
‘I believe in the rule of law, Mrs Courtney Meerbach. I believe that people should be able to live their lives in peace, knowing that the law protects them from violence, intimidation and coercion. And, yes, it distresses me, as it does you, to see the way that the British Empire is treating its subjects. But I am even more disgusted to see the way that these gangsters who say they are freedom fighters treat their Kenyan brothers and sisters. And it makes me angry, because I have fought with the British and I know what they are like. The more they are attacked, the more they refuse to be defeated. So the more this rebellion goes on, the further away we get from the day when Kenya is free to govern itself. It is a stupid fight
, for it achieves the very opposite of what it intends.’
‘Well said . . . and truthfully said, too.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘But a lot of the Mau Mau fought in Burma, like you did, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why did you come back from the war with such different ideas to them?’
‘Because I was lucky. When I was a small boy, one of the teachers at the mission school . . .’ He smiled fondly. ‘Mrs Parker . . . She saw that I found the work easier than the others and she made a special effort with me. She gave me books, played me records with beautiful music, showed me pictures of great works of art. She used to say, “A man is never so old or so wise that he should ever stop learning.”
‘So, during the war, I kept learning. When we were on leave in India, while the other men were off wasting their money on bad women with nasty diseases, I was paying attention to a little man called Gandhi, asking myself, “How can such a weak old man defeat such a great empire without firing a single shot?” For surely such a man had a lot to teach me.’
‘Were you really not at all interested in those bad women?’ Saffron asked, smiling. ‘The other men must have thought you were very odd.’
Makori’s face split into a broad smile and he laughed. ‘Not when I showed them pictures of my wife!’
Saffron felt a sudden jolt of disappointment, followed by a terrible feeling that she’d made a fool of herself. Why did married men not have to wear rings when women did? It was so unfair.
‘It’s getting on a bit,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should go back to the tent. My husband will be wondering what’s become of me.’
‘Wait!’ Makori said. ‘There is something else. Is it true that you went into Europe, undercover, and lived among the enemy for months?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I really would like to talk about this with you.’
‘I’m not sure what I could tell you. I mean, you fought with the Chindits. And I don’t know anything about jungle or forest warfare – let alone about the Mau Mau.’