by Wilbur Smith
At first, he had reacted with furious, blustering denials and protestations of innocence, shaking his fist at Kabaya, cursing him, damning him as a liar and even turning to address the watching Mau Mau, insisting that all the allegations against him were just wicked fabrications. But as the victims and their suffering mounted up, De Lancey appeared to run out of both energy and conviction. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped and his voice was stilled.
Makori’s first instinct was that De Lancey was a beaten man, who knew that his guilt was now beyond dispute, and that the only matter left to be resolved was the nature of his punishment. But as Makori watched more closely he saw something else. The grossly obese torturer was not surrendering. That was all just a front. In reality, he was planning. And while Kabaya continued with his denunciations and his audience became ever more heated, De Lancey seemed calm.
This man thinks he can escape his punishment, Makori realised. But how?
Kabaya’s speech came to an end.
‘And so,’ he concluded, ‘I ask the jury to find Nguuo the Torturer guilty on all counts!’
Kabaya stood facing his shouting, cheering, jeering men and waited for the hubbub to die down. He turned to De Lancey and asked, ‘Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
Quentin De Lancey hauled himself to his feet. Makori knew that to white women like Saffron Courtney, who set such store by their slenderness and physical health, obesity was a moral, as well as an aesthetic affront. It suggested greed, indolence and self-indulgence. But men from poor African families, who had lived all their life in the shadow of hunger and even starvation, saw great girth as a sign of wealth and power. In their world, only the mightiest chiefs could ever hope to match De Lancey’s bulk. No matter how much they hated him for what he had done, they could not help feel a degree of admiration for him.
‘Yes, you filthy black baboon, I have something to say, all right.’ Quentin De Lancey was holding his head high and staring at Kabaya, challenging him to be the first to look away. ‘I did everything you said I did, and I’d do it again, ten times over.’
There was a gasp of astonishment from the audience. Such brazen defiance was not what they had expected, and they were uncertain how to respond. Makori’s shock was as great as everyone else’s. De Lancey’s crimes were even worse than Saffron had suggested. How could he not be ashamed? And how dare he stand in this gathering and speak to a black man in that way? Surely that was as foolhardy as it was insulting.
Kabaya was taken aback. For once he had to search for his words before he was able to reply.
‘In that case, since you have confessed your guilt, we will proceed directly to the sentencing—’
‘Wait!’ boomed De Lancey. ‘Even the condemned man standing on the gallows is allowed to say a last few words. May I not address the people too?’
Kabaya had always been sensitive to the mood of his troops. He knew that they wanted to hear what the accused man had to say for himself. Even for men who were living outside the law, the right to speak was a matter of basic justice, which they would all want for themselves. Kabaya considered the situation and concluded that De Lancey would only condemn himself further with his outpouring of crass self-justification. He nodded and said to him, ‘Speak.’
‘Very well then, I shall start by asking you a question, General –’ the rank was delivered with sneering sarcasm – ‘Kabaya. Is there anything that I have done that you have not done yourself, and more often, and worse? Have you not killed? Have you not mutilated? Last night, when you captured me in my home, my wife was there also. Did you show her mercy? Did you leave her be? Or did you rape her and cut her until she died, as you and your Mau Mau friends have done to innocent white women the length and breadth of Kenya?’
‘They deserved it,’ Kabaya said, though there was something defensive about his tone. ‘They are as responsible as their men for the subjugation of the Kikuyu and the theft of our land.’
‘So you admit your guilt. That makes us equal.’
Makori saw the men around him nod in approval at the way De Lancey had caught Kabaya out. There was nothing the Kikuyu liked more than to see one man trap another with his logic, even if their own general was on the receiving end.
‘Since we are now equal, let us talk as men, one to another. And let us see whether we can reach an honourable agreement that will benefit us both.’
Kabaya was intrigued. The last thing he had expected from De Lancey was the suggestion that the white man and black man were equals, or that they could work together to their mutual advantage. But he could not be seen to concede too easily.
‘We can talk if you like, Nguuo. But know this . . . I still say you are guilty. I still say you will be executed for your crimes. So, go ahead. Try to persuade me, and hope that you do. For if you fail, you die.’
‘I accept that challenge,’ De Lancey said.
Makori whistled to himself, surprised and also a little impressed by the white man’s defiance.
‘I start from a simple proposition, Kabaya. You and I know what it is to hate. And what is more, we both hate the same men – upper-class bastards who think they’re better than everyone else, black or white.’
‘You mean the Englishmen who rule this country?’ Kabaya replied.
Makori realised that De Lancey had succeeded in one thing at least. He had involved his opponent in a dialogue he had not expected to have. Suddenly he was controlling the proceedings.
But where is he going with this? Makori wondered.
For his part, Kabaya had not spotted what De Lancey was doing. He could not resist engaging in the argument.
‘These men have stripped my people of their land, their rights, their freedom, their families, their homes and their lives. We have lost more than you can even imagine. How dare you compare your situation to ours?’
‘I’m not comparing what we have lost,’ De Lancey replied. ‘I’m comparing how much we hate. And though you may not choose to believe this, there are men among this country’s rulers that I have hated since you were a grubby little piccaninny, swatting away the flies from your snot-encrusted nose.’
‘Why did you hate these men?’
‘They’re a bunch of arrogant snobs who’ve always looked down on me. They thought I was inferior, common, worth less than them. Oh, they were happy to let me do their dirty work. But the moment I put a foot out of place, that was it. They dropped me without a second thought.’
Kabaya shrugged, distinctly unimpressed. ‘I believe that you do hate these men, Nguuo. And I hate them too – but I hate you too, as do all the Kikuyu people. You have brought us nothing but pain and misery. You have given me no reason why I should ever agree to stand alongside you. And I see every reason to kill you, slowly, before the eyes of all my men. Yes, that is what I will do . . . Gitiri!’
His baleful henchman stepped out of the shadows beside the lean-to, brandishing his panga.
‘Wait! Please!’ De Lancey’s bold exterior began to fray. ‘I can give you something you want!’
In his position at the back of the crowd, Makori gave a little shake of the head.
You showed weakness, De Lancey. Bad move.
‘Yes . . .?’
Kabaya had a sly smile on his face. He was enjoying the Englishman’s dread at the sight of Gitiri and the thought of what his panga might do.
De Lancey made one last attempt to regain the initiative.
‘You will never win this war,’ he said. ‘The British government will never allow itself to be kicked out of Kenya. They could make life so much better for your people . . . But they choose to slaughter you instead. You have to find a way of ending this before they kill you all.’
‘We will never surrender.’
‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. I’m proposing a means of forcing the governor of Kenya to sit down and negotiate peace.’
‘And we will never negotiate! We will never betray the Kikuyu people!’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, stop striking poses and use your brain. You have a choice. Keep on the way you are, in the certain knowledge that they’ll get you long before you get your freedom. Or do something so bold, so striking, so bloody shocking that it changes the whole game.’
‘Changes it how?’
‘By taking away your enemy’s willingness to keep fighting. Listen, the whites in Kenya are as sick of this as you are. Their kids go to bed sobbing every night. Their memsahibs are half round the bend with terror. And it doesn’t matter what the politicians in Westminster want. If the Kenyan whites say, “We’ve had enough. We want peace, right now,” it’s going to be impossible to keep the war going.’
‘And how would I do that? You stop squealing like a fat pig and tell me that!’
De Lancey summoned a smile. ‘All right, then, I’ll tell you. But before I do, I need to know one thing. I know you’ve got these men here and at least one motor vehicle at your disposal. But can you assemble a force of a minimum forty men, preferably more, and transport them at speed to a given target, carry out an armed assault and then get them out again?’
‘These are all classified matters,’ Kabaya stonewalled.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, look around – who am I going to tell? Or is that your way of saying, “No, I haven’t”?’
Kabaya bristled at the suggestion. ‘The men here are not my only forces in the forest. We have trucks, not just that van. The British Army itself taught me how to plan and execute military missions.’
‘Good, because I have one in mind. I know how you can strike at the heart of the white community. There’s a group of people that everyone thinks are untouchable, people the whole of Kenya knows by name and reputation, even if they’ve never met them. If you kill these people, then all Kenya will know that no white man, woman or child is safe because you and other terrorists like you can get anyone, anywhere at any time. And when that happens, it won’t matter what the British government wants. Johnny Settler and his wife will be desperate to do a deal. So . . . will you save my life?’
‘Why should I? You have said much, but there have been no details, no plan of attack. So far I do not have any reason to keep you alive.’
De Lancey nodded. ‘Very well then, you want my plan . . . here it is . . .’
And that was when he said the word, ‘Lusima’.
From his position at the back of the onlookers, Makori could not hear every detail of what De Lancey was proposing. But he caught enough to chill his blood. Everyone in Kenya, black or white, knew three things about Bwana Courtney and his family. They were rich beyond any normal man’s imagination. Their estate was like a private kingdom. And their native workers were the best-treated in the country, with no need to fight for a better life. The rest of the nation might be going up in flames, but Lusima was still a peaceful paradise.
That being the case, the deaths of Leon Courtney and his family might provoke frenzied, panicked demands for even greater savagery and oppression. As Makori had told Saffron, the British always fight back. But even they had their limits – India had proved that – and De Lancey’s point that Kenya’s whites were fed up with being frightened was well made. Any policeman knew how panic-stricken the settlers already were. An atrocity like the one De Lancey was proposing might just shock them into calling for an end to the civil war.
And Makori had no doubt that the attack could succeed. This was no idea De Lancey had cooked up on the spur of the moment. He’d thought of routes that would get an insurgent force to the heart of Lusima with virtually no chance of being seen. He’d considered the likely ability of the people there to defend themselves, and what would be required to overcome them.
And yet, De Lancey could not possibly have anticipated a moment like this, nor such an opportunity to put his plans into effect.
No, thought Makori, this has just been his dream of revenge against the rich men. Yet now Kabaya will be the one to make it come true.
Makori had given Saffron a lecture about the need to rescue De Lancey and rely on the judicial system to take its course. But even if his men achieved total surprise, the chances of a dozen attackers overpowering a force of more than twice their size were slim. And supposing they did win that fight, De Lancey could well be killed in the crossfire.
The original plan would have to be scrapped. So now what?
Makori had to make a decision upon which the fate of a family, and possibly his nation, might depend. For there was a voice in his head that said, ‘Let this attack happen. Let it succeed. Let it cause chaos, bring the British to the negotiating table and take advantage of what happens next.’
But that, he quickly decided, was the voice of a fool. If Kabaya and the other men like him who were driving the rebellion ever got so much as a sniff of power, they would never let it go. They had no interest in democracy, no concern for the people. For them, this was simply the biggest robbery of their careers: the theft and plunder of an entire nation.
Makori’s duty as a policeman was clear, as was his moral duty to Saffron Courtney. He had promised to keep her safe. She had shown him nothing but respect. Now he had to warn her of the threat confronting her family. If that meant abandoning De Lancey to Kabaya’s mercies, so be it.
But before Makori could issue a warning that was specific enough to be useful, he had to hear what Kabaya’s response would be.
The Mau Mau commander took his time, and when he spoke it was not to De Lancey, but to one of his own men, the ugly-looking brute who’d been standing beside him wielding the large and fearsome panga.
‘What do you think, brother, should we do as Nguuo suggests?’
‘The plan could work . . .’ the brute said.
‘I agree.’
De Lancey relaxed. The corners of his mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smirk. His gambit was going to pay off.
‘But we must strike immediately, attack tonight,’ Kabaya added.
This was better than De Lancey had dared hope.
Makori, meanwhile, was working out the quickest, safest way for he and Thiga to leave as discreetly as they’d arrived.
He didn’t see the flicker of Kabaya’s eyes towards Gitiri, the merest glance that carried with it all the instructions the executioner needed.
Two quick steps, a single swing of the panga’s blade . . . And the first Makori knew of it was the thump as De Lancey’s head hit the ground, shortly before the rest of his mountainous corpse collapsed.
But even that brutal execution was of little account to Makori. The only lives that mattered to him now were those of the Courtney family.
The moment Saffron saw Makori, Thiga and Wando emerge from the trees, she knew something was wrong.
‘What happened?’ she asked Makori. ‘Did you find De Lancey?’
Makori nodded. ‘He is dead. We must get back to the cars, fast. I will explain when we get there.’
Saffron knew better than to ask any more questions. Makori was in charge.
Makori and the pseudos were used to long, hard runs. They had been fighting in these mountain forests for the best part of two years, chasing Mau Mau gangs at pace for hours, even days at a time. Saffron was fit by normal standards. She had been born and raised at altitude, and she had trained herself into shape for the South Africa mission, but this was far more challenging than even the toughest session on her home-made assault course. The terrain was hilly, punishing to the legs and lungs on the uphill sections, but no less tricky on the downhill runs, when speeding limbs could easily trip, twist or even break on the countless holes, tree roots and patches of damp slippery leaves underfoot. After just ten minutes, she was gasping for breath, her heart was pounding fit to burst and her legs were screaming in protest.
But Saffron was never going to stop running or ask Makori to slow down. She had been trained to endure pain. She knew that no matter how much her body might beg her to surrender, she would find reserves of strength and endurance. Beyond that, though, h
er will to keep going was founded on an intuition that Makori was afraid. But what it was that had spooked him, Saffron did not know. And she was hurting too much, and working so hard to overcome the pain, that she had no mental or physical energy to waste on pointless speculation. She just ran.
Wambui ran ahead of Saffron, giving her someone to follow and occasionally, when the terrain allowed, slipping back alongside her to offer encouragement. They were halfway to the glade where the vehicles were waiting, and the two women were side by side when Wambui said, ‘Storm coming.’
Saffron did not have the breath to answer, but she nodded. In the momentary pause between Makori’s return and the start of the run, she had seen Wando looking up through the forest canopy to catch a glimpse of the sky. Now she knew why.
By the time they reached the glade and Saffron was bent double with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath, the first faint rumbles of distant thunder could be heard to the east, towards the Lusima Estate.
It’s going to be a wet drive home, Saffron thought, grateful that her Land Rover had a closed, hardtop driver’s cab.
She felt a pat on her back and looked round to see Makori. Saffron managed an exhausted smile.
‘Hope I didn’t slow you down.’
‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘You did well. But I have bad news for you. Before De Lancey died he tried to make a bargain with Kabaya, the man who captured him. He told Kabaya how to mount a sneak attack on your father’s house. Every detail.’
‘Oh God . . .’ Saffron gasped.
‘There is worse news. Kabaya is planning to attack tonight.’
Saffron closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and fought the impulse to scream.
Control yourself, woman. Get a grip. You’ve been in tougher situations than this. Deal with the matter in hand, one step at a time.
‘We have to warn them,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Where’s the nearest farm with a phone?’
‘Most farmers around here cannot afford one,’ Makori replied. ‘To get a line connected is very expensive. But I believe old Major Brett has a phone. His memsahib made him put it in. She said it made her feel safer.’