by Wilbur Smith
‘How far away is his place?’
‘About three miles from the edge of the forest.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Saffron said.
She dashed to her Land Rover, Wambui beside her. But as she leaned forward to put the key in the ignition she paused for an instant as a thought struck her: Major Brett . . . where have I heard that name before?
Kungu Kabaya commanded his Mau Mau gang with the same efficiency and competence as he had once run his King’s African Rifles company. Whenever he and his men raided white farms, they did not just kill the owners. They took their weapons, their supplies of ammunition, food and fuel and any vehicles that took Kabaya’s fancy. In this way he had steadily increased the quality of his four-wheeled fleet, whose flagships were three Bedford trucks, all originally army vehicles, that he had liberated from a police station, a builders’ yard and a logging company.
They had each been given new paint-jobs and licence plates and were kept, along with piled barrels of diesel fuel and crates of spare parts, in a guarded encampment, covered by camouflage netting. It lay undetected by the authorities, barely four hundred yards from a road that led to Molo, and from there down into the Rift Valley, to Nakuru and on to Nairobi.
More significantly, the road skirted the northern edge of the Lusima Estate. And De Lancey, who had been given a guided tour of the property as part of his security survey, had revealed that there was a private, unmarked road that led across the estate, direct to the Courtney family home.
‘A few miles past Molo, you’ll see a bloody great outcrop,’ he’d said. ‘It’s some kind of sacred place to the Maasai, apparently. You can’t miss it, goes straight up like a tower, so high you often can’t see the top for the clouds. Now, when you get close to that mountain, look out for a single, large boulder, standing by itself on the right-hand side of the road. That marks the Courtneys’ road. Turn off there and head south. You won’t see anything at first. The arrogant sods don’t want the masses to know it’s there. But you’ll pick it up about half a mile in. From then on, keep going. It’ll take you to the house. Chances are you’ll go all the way and won’t see a single living soul.’
Nguuo was telling the truth, thought Kabaya, when the boulder turned out to be where De Lancey had told them. Let us hope he was right about everything else.
The drive down from the forest had passed without incident. There had been police checks on the way. But the policemen had been Kikuyu. One reminder of their oaths was enough to ensure they let the trucks through without question.
As they drove slowly towards the lower slopes of the mountain, looking for signs of a proper, hard track, Kabaya felt a tremor of anxiety. The private road was not where De Lancey had said it would be.
Kabaya saw something ahead.
‘Stop!’ he commanded the driver.
He jumped down from the cab and walked across the parched earth to a depression where dust had settled. He saw a set of tyre tracks, no more than a day old. Judging by the width of the tracks and pattern of the tread, they came from a car-sized vehicle, most probably a Land Rover or jeep, since it was going across open country.
Kabaya looked at the position of the sun, which was setting to the west, and used it to judge the bearing of the tracks. They were heading south-east, towards his own destination.
He climbed up beside the driver and said, ‘Follow them.’
Sure enough, the tracks led to the road. It was a matter of distance: the cunning, deceitful Courtneys had stopped it almost twice as far from the public highway as Nguuo had suggested.
Kabaya looked towards the horizon and wondered when the storm would break.
Before we get to the house, he thought. All the better for us. In the darkness and rain, no one will see us coming.
It was late afternoon and the light was fading fast as Makori led the three Land Rovers up the long drive from the Keringet road to the heart of the Bretts’ farm.
They had no stockade around their property, which was a bungalow, surrounded by a verandah. Prettily planted flower beds and a well-manicured lawn, enclosed by a white picket fence, created the effect of an English cottage garden. Saffron knew that there would be a small settlement on the property for the farm workers, with sheds for the farm equipment. But that was hidden away somewhere, so as not to disturb the owners’ view.
The drive stopped about thirty yards short of the front door. Saffron brought her vehicle to a halt and watched as Makori jumped from his open driver’s seat, opened the picket fence gate and walked up the garden path towards the bungalow. Now that the engines had been switched off, she noticed the thunder was getting louder as the storm drew nearer.
Sweet Jesus, he’s forgotten he’s in his pseudo get-up!
Saffron knew how easy it was, when working undercover, to get one’s identities confused. Makori was thinking like a policeman, seeking assistance from a member of the public with whom he was familiar. But that wasn’t what the Bretts would see.
She got out of the car and started running.
The front door opened. From the corner of her eye Saffron saw a large, portly silver-haired man with an Edwardian cavalryman’s moustache emerge and stand in the doorway, sheltered by the verandah. He was holding a double-barrelled shotgun. His face looked familiar, but that wasn’t her priority right now.
Makori suddenly realised his mistake and stopped dead, raising a hand and calling out, ‘Major Brett, I am . . .’
In a single swift, well-practised movement, Brett raised the gun to his shoulder and took aim.
Saffron threw herself full-length and hit Makori just above the knee at the moment that Brett pulled the trigger. They crashed to the ground as the lead pellets flashed just inches over their falling bodies and punched into the front of one of the police Land Rovers, smashing a headlight.
Now Saffron remembered.
‘Don’t shoot, Major, it’s me, Saffron Courtney . . . from the Pony Club gymkhana!’
‘Get up!’ Brett ordered her. ‘Hands in the air. Any funny business and I’ll blow your bloody head off!’
Saffron did as she was told. ‘Please, Major, don’t be alarmed,’ she said, trying to speak calmly.
Brett was an old man, living in a community that felt under constant threat. He must be terrified, jumpy, close to panic, as any of his neighbours would be if three cars filled with armed natives turned up outside their house. But Saffron needed him to relax, settle his nerves and start to think clearly. Her life and her family depended on Brett letting her use that phone.
‘I promise you we are not terrorists,’ she said.
Brett stepped down from the verandah, rifle still raised, and took a few paces towards her. He pointed the gun at Makori, who was lying stock-still on the ground.
‘That man is a damn Mau Mau!’
‘I know he looks like it, you’re quite right,’ Saffron said. ‘But please believe me, this is Sergeant Makori of the Kenyan Police.’
‘Doesn’t look like any policeman I ever saw.’
‘No, Major, he doesn’t. He looks like a Mau Mau because he’s been spying on them – in their camp – and he’s got information that—’
‘And what’s all this about a gymkhana?’
Saffron felt her stomach tense. Brett was still as confused and anxious as ever. Then the door behind him opened a few inches, spilling a shaft of light onto the verandah, and a quavering female voice called out, ‘Herbert? Herbert? What’s going on out there . . .? I’m frightened!’
‘Get back inside, Edwina!’ Brett shouted, tilting his head towards the house. ‘Back inside, this second! I’ve got this under control!’
No, you haven’t, Saffron thought.
She raised her voice just enough that Edwina Brett could hear her, praying that she wouldn’t obey her husband.
‘It was 1926,’ she said. ‘I came second in the showjumping to Percy Toynton, who was almost twice my age. I was terribly cross and you thought it was rather poor
form, me being such a poor loser.’
Brett relaxed a fraction and his gun barrel dropped a few degrees lower as he tried to make sense of what she’d just told him. Saffron judged the distance between them. It was no more than ten or twelve yards. She could probably get to him, knock him down and take the gun before he had a chance to aim and get a shot off. But it wasn’t a sure thing. And she didn’t want to use force against an elderly couple. No matter what the situation, that was just wrong.
She kept talking. ‘That was the year my mother died. Eva Courtney, I’m sure you remember her.’
The front door to the little house opened slightly. An elderly lady emerged. She was wearing a floral housecoat and slippers, with her hair in curlers, covered by a net.
Poor thing, she was probably getting ready for an early night, Saffron thought.
Edwina Brett peered at her and said, ‘Are you really the Courtney girl?’
‘Yes, Mrs Brett, and I desperately need to use your telephone. My family are in terrible danger. We’ve got to warn them.’
Saffron was about to tell Major Brett that he had met Makori before. But he would never believe that he and the scruffy, unwashed figure before him had ever had any dealings whatever. Instead she said, ‘Sergeant Makori is a King’s African Rifles veteran. He’s got a DCM, and bar, and Police Medal for Gallantry.’
Finally she was speaking Brett’s language.
‘The KAR, you say? Well, we’ll soon see about that. Get up, boy, and no monkey business!’
Saffron winced inwardly at Brett’s language as Makori got to his feet.
‘Attention!’ ordered Brett.
Makori snapped into a straight-backed, head-up pose a guardsman would have envied.
‘At ease . . .’
Makori put his hands behind his back, legs apart, feet in line with his shoulders.
‘So you served in the KAR, you say?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Makori replied. ‘Second East African Brigade, then seconded to the Chindits, sir.’
‘And they gave you a brace of DCMs?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Brett looked at Saffron. ‘And you’ll vouch for him?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Saffron said, noting that Brett seemed to respond better if spoken to as a superior officer.
‘Did I hear you say your family were in a spot of bother?’
‘Yes, sir. The Mau Mau are about to attack my father’s house at Lusima. We have to warn him, sir.’
‘Well then, you had better come in.’
Saffron and Makori followed Brett up to the verandah and through the front door, watched by the wide-eyed Edwina, who plainly could not begin to imagine what the heiress to the Courtney fortune was doing with the ruffian making his malodorous way into her home.
‘Telephone’s in the hall,’ Brett said, glancing back at his visitors. ‘Usual drill. Dial for the operator, they’ll put you through.’ He turned to his wife and, knowing that she would feel better if she had something to do, said, ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on, old girl? Dare say our guests could use a decent cup of tea. And a couple of your delicious shortbread biscuits, what?’
Saffron dialled, as instructed. The operator answered. She gave the number of her parents’ house. She heard the operator dial the number and then . . . silence.
‘I am sorry, ma’am, but I cannot get through,’ the operator said.
‘Please try again.’
‘Of course.’ A few seconds later, she repeated that she could not get through. ‘It is possible that the lines are down, ma’am. We have reports of storm damage across the country.’
Saffron hung up, muttered, ‘Damn and blast it,’ and turned to Makori.
‘What did De Lancey tell Kabaya? How is he going to attack?’
‘From the north. He said there was a secret, private road that leads across the estate to the main house. How far is that?’
‘About twenty-two miles from the estate boundary to the house.’
‘How long would it take to drive?’
‘In broad daylight and dry conditions, you could do it in around forty minutes, less if you pushed it. But at night, with bad weather coming, it could take longer.’
‘That will buy us more time.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Saffron said. ‘And surely it will take time for Kabaya to summon all his troops and get them to wherever he keeps his trucks?’
‘Yes, he was boasting about having more men than were visible at that meeting. They will have to come from somewhere.’
‘Okay.’ Saffron nodded. ‘Now, was the Estate House the only place De Lancey mentioned?’
Makori shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry, but he also informed Kabaya about Cresta Lodge. He said that you lived there with your husband and children.’
‘Oh no! Gerhard, Zander, Kika!’ Saffron exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, Makori, Cresta’s only three miles from the estate boundary. Kabaya could get there in no time. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘What good would that do? We are already doing all that is possible. And I do not believe that there is an immediate threat to your husband and children. Mister De Lancey did not seem interested in your home. It is your father he hates. He and Kabaya concentrated on your father’s house. But perhaps you can call your husband now? The storm may not have reached him yet.’
‘No point. We don’t have a phone.’ Saffron gave an angry, frustrated sigh. ‘We thought it was romantic. You know, living in our own little world.’
‘In that case, there is nothing more we can do. The priority must be to reach your father’s house before Kabaya.’
Makori looked towards Major Brett. ‘Do you have a map of the local area, sir?’
‘In my study. Follow me.’
They made their way slowly into the living room, followed by Edwina, carrying a tray with four cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, through the dining room and into a study whose walls were lined with ancient, moth-eaten hunting trophies. As Edwina handed out the cups and offered sugar to go with them, Major Brett shuffled through the papers piled on his bureau.
‘Found it!’ Brett said triumphantly, holding up a dog-eared, heavily creased road map.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Saffron.
She dashed back into the dining room and unfolded the map on the mahogany dining table, holding one end in place with her tea-cup. Makori downed his drink in one, declared, ‘Ahh, very good!’ and put his cup at the other end of the map.
‘Where are we now?’ Saffron asked.
Makori examined the map, got his bearings and pointed.
‘About here.’
‘Right.’ Saffron swept her finger around an area of the map. ‘The Lusima Estate occupies all this land. It runs in a long, thin oval, from north-west to south-east. And the road you’re talking about runs from about here . . . down to the Estate House, here. The area to the south and east of the house is the Kikuyu farming country. We need to get the produce from there to market, so the only properly made-up road on the estate runs across the farming area to the house.’
‘Coming in from the opposite end to the route Kabaya is taking.’
‘Exactly. So we are here, to the west of Lusima, about half the way down . . . Which means that if we drive cross-country from here, we’ll hit this road—’
‘It looks more like a track,’ Makori said, peering at the faint dotted line on the map that Saffron had pointed out.
‘I know that track.’ Major Brett plainly had no doubt at all now about the gravity of the situation. ‘Bit bumpy, but you’ll get those Land Rovers down it all right. Then you’ll hit the main road through the hills to Njoro.’ He traced the route with his finger. ‘D’you see?’
Saffron nodded, then told Makori, ‘I can guide us from Njoro to the main entrance to the estate. From there it’s only about ten or twelve minutes to the house, tarmac all the way.’
There was a sudden rumble of thunder, much louder than before. Saf
fron glanced up at the sound.
‘Lots of rain, very soon,’ Makori said.
‘Well, the weather will be the same for everyone.’ Saffron sighed. ‘It’s going to be bloody tight between Kabaya and us.’ She looked at the Bretts and said, ‘Thank you, Major, Mrs Brett, we’ll be on our way.’
Saffron and Makori ran through the house and out across the verandah towards the Land Rovers. As they went, Makori said, ‘Is it true that your husband was a fighter pilot?’
‘Yes – we keep a plane at the lodge.’
‘Then there is nothing to worry about. When he hears Kabaya’s trucks, he can just take your children and fly away. He will be as free as a bird.’
Gerhard had almost chased after Saffron to give her a proper hug and a kiss goodbye, and the fact that he hadn’t had niggled at him all day. His wartime experiences had taught him that death could strike at any moment, and he had lost too many friends without a proper farewell. He hated the thought that such a thing might ever happen to him and Saffron. But there was little time or energy to spend for brooding with two small children in the house.
It was getting late in the day and Gerhard was thinking of that first, blessed sip of his evening drink. But Zander had other ideas.
‘Please can we go up in your aeroplane today, Daddy,’ he begged. ‘Please, Daddy, please-please-please!’
The older they got, the more the children loved to go up in the Tri-Pacer. Zander had his sights set on becoming a pilot and was constantly pestering Gerhard to teach him how to fly. The response was always the same.
‘Not until your feet touch the pedals. And maybe not even then.’
While her brother tugged at their father’s sleeve with a desperation born of wild excitement at the thought that they might get the ride they craved, mixed with a terrible fear that they would be refused, Kika had gone for a more subtle approach. At the age of four, she had already begun to master the art of twisting her besotted father around her little finger. She wandered into his path as he walked across the playroom, forcing him to stand still, then looked up at him with her sweetest, most wide-eyed expression and said, ‘Please, Daddy, do take us flying. I promise we’ll be really good for days and days, won’t we, Zander?’