Dictator

by Tom Cain

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ she began.

  ‘That’s all right. I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. You shouldn’t have had to go through something like that. But we didn’t have a choice. We had to move in when we did.’

  She reached up and gripped Carver’s wrist. Her voice was an urgent whisper and there was an anxious, pleading look in her sapphire eyes. ‘I understand. But please, I’m begging you, please don’t tell my uncle, you know, that Moses took his clothes off and … you know. It’s just, well, it’s not something I want to talk about.’ Carver said nothing. He thought of the report he was due to write, accounting for all of his actions. He’d attacked ahead of schedule, and that would be hard to explain if he didn’t mention that Mabeki had been about to sexually assault Zalika. But surely she had the right to some privacy. If she didn’t want people to know, why should he make an issue of it?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Carver said, ‘I won’t tell a soul. Ever. That’s a promise.’

  She looked at him with sleepy eyes and nodded, as if satisfied he was telling the truth. Then she sank back down on to the settee. Her eyelids slowly fell shut. And as she drifted off to sleep, Carver was sure that he could detect, for the very first time, the faintest hint of contentment on Zalika Stratten’s face.

  When Carver arrived in Cape Town, the news of Zalika Stratten’s rescue had not yet hit the South African media. But the Cape Times was running a story from Sindele. A Malemban government spokesman had announced that all the Stratten family properties in Malemba had been appropriated by the state, including their many farms and the Stratten Reserve. The farmlands would, the spokesman said, be divided between thousands of war veterans and their families. The reserve, however, would continue to operate as a tourist attraction and a valuable source of foreign currency. ‘In honour of its importance to the economy, and the great value that he places upon our country’s natural heritage, President Gushungo, the Father of the Nation himself, will personally supervise the transfer of the reserve into the people’s hands. He will be using the Strattens’ former estate house, and the land around it, as his personal headquarters during this process.’ When questioned, the spokesman assured reporters that the President’s occupation of what had been, arguably, the most beautiful private home in Malemba was a purely temporary issue. In time, it too would be handed over for the benefit of all the people of Malemba.

  As Carver was driven away to give Wendell Klerk his account of Zalika’s rescue, his mind turned to Justus Iluko. They’d said goodbye at Tete airport.

  ‘Thanks,’ Carver had said, ‘you know …’

  He hadn’t spelled it out. Both men knew that Justus had saved his life. There was no need to make a big deal about it.

  ‘No problem,’ Justus had replied.

  ‘Keep in touch, yeah?’

  ‘Sure,’ the Malemban had said, though his smile suggested he thought it was pretty unlikely.

  Carver had given him a contact number anyway, and Justus had responded with the address of his family farm. It hadn’t seemed significant at the time. But now, sitting in the limo riding into Cape Town from the airport, Carver realized he’d been given a chance to show his appreciation for everything Justus had done.

  Carver’s first thought was simply to wire him a hundred grand in US dollars – just a fraction of his own fee for the job. But it didn’t take five seconds’ thought to realize that in a small rural community in Malemba that kind of money would cause as many problems as it solved. People would look on their newly rich neighbour with a festering mixture of envy, greed and resentment. Far better to give him, say, ten up front, but then set up a discreet trust fund for the children to make sure they got a good education. Justus would prefer that too: those kids meant everything to him. Carver made a mental note to call his banker as soon as he got back to Geneva.

  Shortly after dawn, the first police arrived in Chitongo and set to work examining the building where Zalika Stratten had been held, the warehouse and its surroundings, and the area around the football pitch. A uniformed constable was picking his way through a group of four bodies, all lying within metres of one another, when he stopped and frowned as a fractional movement caught his eye. He got down on his knees next to a body and leaned over it, his head tilted so that one ear was just above the body’s mouth. Then he gasped, jumped back up to his feet and shouted out, ‘Doctor, doctor! Over here! One of them is still alive!’

  Part 2

  Now

  25

  The second time Wendell Klerk summoned Carver, he phrased it as an invitation: a weekend at Campden Hall, his estate in Suffolk, seventy miles north of London. ‘I’m having a few people over. I think you’d enjoy it,’ he said. ‘If there’s a better chef or a finer wine-cellar in any private home in England, I’ve yet to see them. And I’ve got a shooting set-up that’s second to none.’

  Whatever the reason Klerk was so keen to see him, Carver didn’t think it had much to do with good company or fine wine. But the Mozambique assignment had given him a lot of respect for the man. In a business filled with double-crossing bastards, Klerk had told it straight, kept his word and paid in full when the job was done. That was a decade ago now, but there was no harm in at least listening to what he had to say.

  ‘Sounds good,’ Carver said.

  ‘Excellent. You still based in Geneva? I’ll send a plane to pick you up.’

  The plane duly arrived one Friday afternoon in May, and a uniformed chauffeur driving a Bentley Arnage limousine collected Carver from the airport and drove him to Campden Hall. A butler opened a front door that nestled beneath the portico of classical Ionic columns that dominated the building’s Palladian facade. When Carver stepped into the marble-floored grand hall, from which a double staircase rose through the heart of the house, one of the most striking women he had ever seen in his life was waiting there to greet him.

  She walked towards him with a click-clack of teetering patent black heels and a smile that proclaimed there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the whole wide world that could possibly delight her more than saying hello to Samuel Carver. Her glossy auburn hair floated around her shoulders like a slow-motion close-up in a shampoo commercial. Below the breasts that pressed against the soft cream silk of her blouse a broad black belt – patent, to match her shoes – emphasized the slenderness of her waist, while an apparently demure knee-length black pinstriped skirt was somehow cut to suggest every inch of the long, slender thighs sheathed in sheer black stockings that swayed beneath it.

  ‘Hello, I’m Alice, Mr Klerk’s personal assistant,’ she said.

  Her voice was soft, pliant, almost submissive; but for a fleeting moment Carver caught a much sharper glint in her hazel eyes and the hint of an ironic twist to the corners of her mouth. Alice, he decided, knew precisely the effect she had on men and liked to play with it a little.

  She paused, as if daring him to make some cheap crack about the nature of the assistance she offered, then went on: ‘Mr Klerk is so sorry he can’t be here to meet you himself. He’s tied up on a call. But if you follow me, I’ll do my best to make you feel at home.’

  Alice turned and led the way across the hall, proving as she went that her rear view was almost as good as her front. She showed him into a richly decorated drawing room that, in a nod to long-gone imperial traditions, combined very English proportions and furniture with rugs, paintings and objects suggestive of wilder, distant lands.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Carver?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Scotch, please, Blue Label if you’ve got it.’

  ‘Of course. Ice? Soda water?’

  ‘No thanks, neat will do fine.’

  She pressed a button on one of the side-tables and a second later the butler reappeared and was given Carver’s order.

  ‘Terence will bring your drink in a moment,’ Alice said as he departed. ‘I’ll go and see what Mr Klerk is getting up to. I’m sure he won’t want to keep you waiting.’

  She le
ft with what Carver felt certain was a deliberate twitch of her pinstriped backside just before the door closed behind her. Less than a minute later, Terence entered with a silver tray on which stood two whisky snifters, a full lead crystal decanter and a small glass jug of water with two more glasses. He placed the tray on a table and poured out a glass of whisky and another of water. Then he stepped to one side, saying nothing, giving no indication whatever of how he expected Carver to proceed.

  Carver could tell that Terence, like so many servants, was a crashing snob. This was his way of testing Carver’s right to be served.

  ‘Thank you, Terence,’ said Carver, with charming condescension.

  There weren’t many times he thanked his adoptive parents for sending him off to the overpriced, emotionally stunting, frequently abusive confines of an old-fashioned private boarding school, but this was one of them. He had at least been taught how to conduct himself properly, and, when his education failed to provide the correct solution to a social problem, to have the self-confidence to fake one.

  Ignoring the snifter, Carver took a sip of water to clear his palate. Only then did he lift the glass of whisky, gently swirl the honey-coloured liquid and take a long, appreciative sniff of its smoky, floral aromas. Finally he lifted the glass and took a sip. ‘Perfect,’ he said, once he had savoured its complex flavours. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

  Terence gave a fractional nod, acknowledging that Carver would now be treated as a gentleman rather than a mere hired hand, and disappeared once again.

  Taking his whisky, Carver strolled across to the ornate marble fireplace that was the centrepiece of the room. It was flanked on either side by two mighty elephant’s tusks that stood almost to Carver’s full height.

  Above the fireplace hung an oil painting at least five feet tall and wide enough to cover the entire chimney breast. It was a head-on portrait of a single bull elephant striding across the savannah. The artist had somehow perfectly captured not just its appearance, but its spirit. Carver could almost feel the earth tremble at the elephant’s approach, as though it might at any moment break free from the imprisonment of the picture and step right out into the room.

  ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’

  Wendell Klerk’s low rumble of a voice had, if anything, become even deeper in the years since Carver had first heard it.

  He turned to look at his host. Klerk had acquired a few more lines on his face and the curly hair had gone from coal black to steely grey, but the man’s pugnacious air of vitality and determination was undimmed.

  ‘Good to see you again, Sam,’ Klerk said, taking Carver’s hand in a crushing grip. ‘Glad you could make it. I want you to know that I have not forgotten what you did for me and my family. I can never repay you. Never.’

  Carver gave a wry smile, thinking of the massive fee that had been deposited in his Geneva account. ‘You made a pretty good stab at it, Mr Klerk.’

  The tycoon laughed. ‘Ja, that’s true! But hey, call me Wendell. You are my guest, in my home. I don’t want to stand on ceremony.’

  Klerk went across to the table where the drinks had been left. He ignored the water, poured himself a deep measure of whisky, downed it in one and refilled his glass before rejoining Carver by the fireplace.

  ‘David Shepherd did that for me – finest wildlife artist in the world,’ Klerk said, looking up at the painting. ‘What’s really remarkable, he was working entirely from photographs. The old bull was dead. I had shot him – quite legally I should add. Those are his tusks: one hundred and eleven, and one hundred and thirteen pounds respectively. We were in northeast Namibia, the Caprivi Strip. I tell you, man, when I came back to Cape Town with those beauties, no one could bloody believe it. Mind you, they cost me the love of a fine young woman.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Her name was Renée. Beautiful girl, but she hated the idea of me shooting such a magnificent creature. I tried to explain that it is vital to cull the herds for conservation purposes. If elephant populations are allowed to expand too much, they will destroy their habitat through overeating. Then there is nothing left for them, or other animals, or even the human population, and that is when things turn nasty. It is far better for everyone to manage the elephants through controlled hunting. It even provides legal ivory so that there is less opportunity for poachers to make money.’

  ‘What did Renée say to that?’

  ‘She said she didn’t care. Killing animals was wrong and she couldn’t love a man who could slaughter a defenceless elephant. I said to her, try wandering up to an angry bull elephant and see how defenceless it is. How would you like one of those tusks jammed right through your guts?’

  ‘I bet she didn’t like that.’

  ‘No, she certainly did not! But my argument still stands. Sometimes the herd must be culled. Sometimes the rogue male must be destroyed. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good,’ said Klerk. ‘Because there is someone I want you to cull.’

  26

  Carver closed his eyes for a second and sighed. ‘You know I don’t do that kind of thing any more,’ he said. ‘I quit a long time ago.’

  Klerk nodded. ‘That’s what I heard, yes.’

  ‘So why are you asking?’

  ‘Because this is a special case,’ said Klerk. He placed his whisky glass on the mantelpiece. When he spoke again, his hands were in front of him, palms up in something close to supplication. ‘Listen, I truly believe that what I am about to ask you to do will make the world a better place. You could be saving tens, even hundreds of thousands of lives. Millions of people will be freer, healthier and more prosperous.’

  Carver took another sip of his drink. ‘And how, precisely, will I do that?’

  Klerk looked him straight in the eyes. ‘By killing that mad, tyrannical old bastard President Henderson Gushungo of Malemba.’

  ‘Why bother? The man’s in his eighties. He’ll die soon anyway.’

  ‘That’s what people said when he was in his seventies,’ Klerk replied. ‘But in the past ten years, while people have waited for him to go, the whole country has fallen apart. We’re talking an annual inflation rate of eleven million per cent. It is literally cheaper to wipe your arse with Malemban dollars than buy toilet paper. You know, they just printed a one-hundred-trillion-dollar note, and it’s worth less than the scrap of paper it’s printed on.’

  ‘Is that why you want him dead, to lower the rate of inflation? You sure the reason isn’t more personal than that?’

  ‘You know, Carver, that’s what I like about you: there’s no bullshit. Ja, I admit it, I’d like to see Gushungo dead for what he did to my family. He ordered the attack on the Stratten Reserve. The deaths there were down to him and he must pay for them in his own blood. That debt is long overdue. But I mean what I say about the shit he’s heaped on Malemba, too.’

  Klerk’s right hand was clenched now, just the index finger sticking out, jabbing at the air between them as he spoke.

  ‘My homeland used to be the breadbasket of Africa, but vast areas of rich, fertile farmland are now just dust and weeds. The only thing stopping mass starvation is food aid from the West. The average life expectancy is just over forty-five years. More than one person in ten has HIV. There’s been an epidemic of cholera. And on top of all that, the people have to put up with oppression, rigged elections, forced eviction from their homes and resettlement in squalid camps miles from bloody anywhere. I tell you, man, it’s a disaster.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Carver. ‘The man’s an evil tyrant. But that’s what they said about Iraq. And killing Saddam didn’t do much good, did it? You take out the bastard at the top, you don’t get a sudden outbreak of peace and love. You just get some other bastard taking his place. Or even worse, a whole bunch of other bastards all fighting for the top spot while innocent civilians get caught in the crossfire. And if you do it illegally it just makes matters even worse. Why would Malemba be any different?�
��

  ‘Because there is an alternative: a genuine democrat waiting for the chance to govern the country properly and peacefully. I presume you’ve heard of Patrick Tshonga, head of the Popular Freedom Movement?’

  ‘Is he that guy who keeps winning elections without ever getting power, the one whose son was killed in a light aircraft? The authorities said the crash was an accident, as I recall.’ Carver gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Oh yeah, I know all about that kind of accident.’

  Klerk took out his mobile phone and pressed a speed-dial number. ‘Could you bring in our other guest please, my dear? And the laptop, too, if you don’t mind.’

  The two men waited in silence for a minute or so. Then the door opened and Alice walked in, holding the slender aluminium body of a MacBook Air under one arm like a futuristic evening-bag. She was accompanied by a tall, powerfully built black man whose shaved head was dusted with a stubble of greying hair. His huge shoulders seemed to strain at the fabric of his suit and his neck bulged over the collar of his shirt. He looked like a retired NFL player, the kind of guy who’d played in the trenches, slugging it out on the line of scrimmage. If he’d been allowed to claim his country by solitary combat, the President wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘My name is Patrick Tshonga. I have the privilege of leading the struggle for democracy in Malemba. I presume Mr Klerk has already made the request that was the reason for inviting you here tonight?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ said Carver as the ever reliable Terence slipped into the room bearing more glasses and fresh supplies of whisky. ‘And I was about to tell him how I used to think I was making the world a better place by taking out the bad guys. Then I realized that it made no difference. The world carried on just like it had before. And I had more deaths on my conscience.’