by Tom Cain
Now the picture on the screen showed Gushungo, surrounded by a scrum of bodyguards and photographers, standing in front of the Colosseum.
‘He went to a UN conference there and talked about the need to preserve global food supplies and meet the threat of climate change,’ said Zalika. ‘This from a man who has reduced his country to a desert! When I think of how our farms used to be when I was a girl: the land looked after so beautifully; wonderful crops every year; plenty of work for everyone … and now it’s all gone. It makes me so angry.’
‘You are not alone, my dear,’ said Tshonga. ‘We all feel the same way.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘Anyway, there are opportunities when the President makes these visits. But the host countries give him the same protection they provide for any head of state. These days all the western nations have excellent special forces, the Middle Eastern and Asian ones, too. I’m sure you could find a way past them if you had to, Sam. But again, it adds to the risk. Which left me with one final option.’
Another picture appeared on the screen. It was blurry, taken at long distance with an extreme telephoto lens. It showed a close-up of Gushungo wearing a dressing gown, leaning on a balcony.
Click.
Now the picture expanded and revealed that the balcony was on the top floor of a slender four-storey building perched on a hillside, with similar constructions on either side.
‘This is dear old Henderson, beloved Father of our Nation, sunning himself at his new holiday home,’ said Zalika. ‘It’s in Hong Kong. And that’s where we’re going to get him.’
29
Before Carver could respond to what Zalika Stratten had said there was a tentative, barely audible knock on the door.
‘Come!’ barked Klerk.
The door opened to reveal a woman in a short strapless red cocktail dress. She was very blonde, very tanned and very thin. As she walked across to Klerk, she smiled in a way that was simultaneously dazzling yet also somewhat tentative, as if she were not quite sure of how she would be received. She stepped up to Klerk and lightly placed her right hand on his chest then kept moving round him as if marking out an invisible boundary to ward off any competitors. She left her hand where it was as she stepped behind him so that her fingers ended up draped over his right shoulder, revealing long, perfectly manicured nails painted in the same scarlet shade as her dress. The diamond and ruby ring on the fourth finger was a mugger’s wet dream.
She gave Klerk a proprietorial peck on the left cheek and said, ‘When do you think you’ll be ready for dinner, sweetie? Jean-Pierre is totally stressing out. He’s making us individual cheese and black truffle soufflés and he says they have to be served straight from the oven.’
‘Ten minutes,’ said Klerk. ‘Let this be a warning to you, Sam: when I have made you very, very rich, you too will have to deal with temperamental chefs and beautiful, highly strung women.’
Klerk turned back to the blonde. ‘My dear, this is Mr Samuel Carver, who is about to do me a very great personal favour by sorting out a problem with our African operations. Sam, meet Brianna Latrelle, my fiancée, who hopes that I’ll do her an even bigger favour by setting the date for our wedding before I die of old age.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Brianna,’ said Carver, shaking her hand.
Up close, he could see that there were fine lines beneath the make-up on Brianna’s pretty face. No wonder she wanted to seal the deal with Klerk. She had to be in her late thirties at least. She needed to land her man soon, before someone younger and fresher stole him away.
‘Hello, Sam,’ Brianna replied, with another all-American cheerleader smile.
She looked at Zalika, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Zalika, honey,’ she said, kissing her on either cheek. ‘You make the cutest little secretary. But aren’t you changing for dinner?’
‘I’m so sorry, Bree,’ said Zalika. ‘I’ve been working so hard I just haven’t had time. And anyway, your dress is so stunning, I’m sure I couldn’t compete.’
The compliment was sweetly made. But Carver detected something much more hostile beneath the surface: each word was like a dagger covered in candyfloss. These two women were anything but friends.
‘Right then, that’s enough chit-chat,’ said Klerk. ‘Brianna, my dear, go and tell Jean-Pierre he can start cooking his precious soufflés.’
‘Of course, my love,’ Brianna said, giving Klerk another little kiss before she left.
Klerk turned his attention to Zalika. ‘Gushungo,’ he said. ‘Hong Kong. Please continue.’
‘Last year, the President paid more than five million dollars for this bolt-hole in Hong Kong,’ said Zalika, snapping straight back into business mode. She’d been totally convincing in the role of Alice the sexy secretary. Now she was equally at ease as a serious, intelligent professional, delivering a well-prepared briefing with all the key facts at her fingertips. Carver had to admit that he’d underestimated her.
‘The location is no accident,’ she continued. ‘For the past fifty years, the Chinese have been working hard to extend their influence over post-colonial Africa, presenting themselves as fellow strugglers against Western imperialism. The deal is always the same. The African nations sell the Chinese the natural resources they can produce and in return the Chinese help install basic infrastructure: roads, railways, power supplies, ports, pretty much anything a modern nation needs, really.
‘Every year, thousands of African students go to Chinese universities. Of course, the irony is that the average Chinese is even more racist towards Africans than a white would be. They call the students “black devils”. Oddly enough, Gushungo doesn’t seem to mind. He’s spent years and years ranting about the evils of white people, but he’s never said a word against the Chinese. Why? Because they let him put his money in their banks and buy property on their territory. And they do something he likes even more than that: they buy his diamonds.’
Another series of images flashed up on the screen: hordes of men and women, carrying spades and pickaxes and caked in dust and grime, clustered in a series of giant open trenches.
‘This is the Chidange diamond field in eastern Malemba,’ said Zalika. ‘It’s an area of forest that’s potentially the single richest source of diamonds in the world. The stones are just lying in the dirt, right up to ground level. So it could be worth billions of dollars a year to the Malemban economy, but it’s never been properly mined or exploited. Until a few years ago, De Beers, the huge South African company that dominates the global diamond market, had the mining rights. They were planning a proper full-scale operation there. But in 2006 the rights were passed to an English company, and then, just a few months later, seized by the government.
‘Naturally, no government run by Henderson Gushungo could ever do something as complex as set up a diamond mine. So the diamonds just lay there, waiting for someone to take them away. Which is what happened. Thousands of people came to Chidange, hoping to make their fortunes. Well, Henderson couldn’t have that. He didn’t want anyone taking his rocks. So he sent in the troops. They went in without warning, firing from helicopter gunships, shooting to kill. No one knows exactly how many people died; dozens certainly, maybe even hundreds. The forests were littered with bodies for miles around. When the killing was over, the whole area was sealed off and all the survivors were forced to fill in all the holes they had dug. They weren’t given any food or water. If they died, they were just thrown into the holes. Anyone who was still alive after all that was then forcibly removed from the area and driven away for resettlement. Then, when no one else was left, Gushungo allowed a new group of diggers into the area – people he trusted, members of his political party. The operations started up again, and all the stones went straight to Henderson Gushungo and his closest associates.’
‘Including Moses Mabeki,’ Tshonga interjected.
‘So they’re blood diamonds,’ said Carver.
‘Exactly,’ said Zalika. ‘And one of the reasons Gushun
go has bought a place in Hong Kong is that he thinks he can sell his diamonds there. He’s trying to put a deal together with the Chinese government. They have an almost unlimited need for industrial-quality diamonds. But the best stones, millions of dollars’ worth of uncut diamonds, he wants to sell separately. Well, I say “he” wants to sell them, but that’s not quite right. Because the real brains behind this scheme is not Henderson Gushungo at all, but his wife.’
The contrast between the images of the desperate, filthy prospectors at Chidange and the woman who now appeared on the screen could not have been more acute. She appeared first as a young bride, resplendent in a flowing, lacy white wedding dress, smiling and waving at the camera with Gushungo standing in formal morning dress beside her. Then came another image, evidently taken a few years later. The wedding dress had been swapped for a black outfit, and her face had hardened: her mouth was set in an expression of tight-lipped disdain, her eyes invisible behind dark glasses whose frames were studded with crystals.
‘This is Faith Gushungo, Henderson’s second wife,’ said Zalika. ‘And there’s no point getting rid of him if you don’t get her as well.’
Carver didn’t like the way the conversation was heading. ‘Just how many people am I supposed to be hitting? First we had Gushungo, then Mabeki, now the wife. Who’s next? Any kids you want me to get rid of? Pets, maybe?’
Klerk looked to the heavens and sighed. He pulled out a BlackBerry and pressed a speed-dial letter. ‘Terence, it’s Mr Klerk. Tell Jean-Pierre to take his soufflés out of the oven. We could be a little late for dinner. Tell Jean-Pierre, if he’s got a problem, take it up with Miss Latrelle. She can deal with it.’
Klerk put the phone away. ‘Carry on, Zalika. You were about to tell Sam about Faith Gushungo. Fascinating woman. Let us hope she’ll soon be burning in hell, hey?’
‘She doesn’t believe she will,’ said Zalika. ‘She’s Faith by name and faith by nature: a devout Christian, just like Henderson. They spend six days a week doing nothing but evil, then they say their prayers on Sunday, take communion and think that everything’s forgiven. They make their bodyguards do it, too. The whole household comes to a standstill. It’s so hypocritical it makes me sick. This is a woman who’s ordered the construction of a new presidential palace, which will cost at least twenty million dollars. She goes on shopping trips to London, Paris and Milan, blowing hundreds of thousands more at a time when the country is desperately short of foreign currency to buy food or oil for its people. And she’s got the nerve to claim that she’s religious.’
‘So Mrs Gushungo’s Africa’s answer to Imelda Marcos,’ said Carver. ‘It isn’t pretty, but it’s hardly a capital offence.’
‘Imelda Marcos … and Lady Macbeth,’ Zalika countered.
‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Patrick Tshonga. ‘You understand, Mr Carver, that Henderson Gushungo is a very elderly man. His ability to retain command of the country is remarkable, but still he is mortal and his faculties are diminished. Faith, however, is still a young woman, in the prime of life. She is filled with energy. She is also filled with hatred, spite and malice. These days, when the veterans seize property or attack people who are deemed to be opponents of the government, as like as not they are doing it on Mrs Gushungo’s orders, not the President’s. She has built vast estates from all the farms she has appropriated. And in every case, it is not just the white owners who have been forced to flee. All the people who worked for them are evicted also, their possessions are seized and their homes are given to Mrs Gushungo’s supporters. And you will note that I say “Mrs Gushungo’s supporters”. These people owe their loyalty to her, not her husband. She has built up an entire power-base of her own. She knows that her man will soon be gone, either because he dies or is finally removed from office. And when that day comes, she does not intend to go with him. No, Faith Gushungo will stay and fight for power for herself.’
‘So where do Hong Kong and the diamonds fit into all this?’ asked Carver.
‘Simple,’ said Zalika. ‘They’re Faith’s Plan B. If it all goes wrong and she gets kicked out along with her husband, then she’s got somewhere to go and a very large amount of money, she hopes, to keep her in comfort and idleness when she gets there.’
‘And what does it all have to do with us?’
Zalika smiled. ‘Well, the Gushungos have a hard time getting any bank to take their business. So when they’re in Hong Kong they keep their diamonds at home. Now, what if someone tried to steal those diamonds?’
‘The robbery might go wrong, people might get hurt and no one would suspect a political motive,’ said Carver. ‘It’s an excellent idea …’
‘Thank you,’ said Zalika, giving an ironic little bow.
‘… but I might have one that’s even better.’
‘Really? What might that be?’
She looked him straight in the eye, challenging him.
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I get it.’
‘So, Sam,’ said Klerk, cutting through the growing tension, ‘you will accept my offer?’
‘I don’t know that, either,’ said Carver. ‘I’ll give you my answer tomorrow afternoon, right here, seventeen hundred hours. You happy with that?’
‘It sounds like I don’t have a choice. Ja, I can live with tomorrow afternoon. Before the meeting we will go shooting. Then we will talk. Meanwhile, let’s eat.’ He glared at Carver and Zalika. ‘You two can sort out your differences over Jean-Pierre’s damned truffle soufflés.’
30
There was a time when Severn Road might easily have been a desirable neighbourhood in the stockbroker belt of Surrey. The substantial houses, set amid croquet lawns, tennis courts and shrubberies, had all been built in the 1930s. They had steeply gabled roofs, half-timbered mock Tudor facades and verandas on which privileged ladies, burdened neither by jobs nor household chores, could comfortably take their tea. The men who owned them had all been educated at the same small group of private boarding schools and shared identical, unquestioned assumptions about their innate superiority, the lesser status of anyone unfortunate enough to be black, brown, yellow or French, and the utter deviousness of Jews.
Yet Severn Road lay not in southern England but southern Africa, in what had once been a suburb of Fort Shrewsbury, capital of British Mashonaland. Its houses were built for the families of the colonial administrators, army officers and businessmen who ran this particular outpost of Empire, as well as the native servants who tended to their needs. For half a century, nothing changed. Then a civil war was fought and lost and British Mashonaland became the independent state of Malemba. Fort Shrewsbury changed its name to Sindele and the white inhabitants of Severn Road made way for a new governing class of African bureaucrats, lawyers and entrepreneurs. By and large, they kept on the servants who had once waited upon their country’s white masters. They even retained some of the old furniture, left behind as the whites fled for the old country. The new bosses were, in some respects, just the same as the old ones.
So another twenty years went by, and Severn Road remained as exclusive and comfortable as it had always been. Then Henderson Gushungo made his fateful decision to cleanse his nation of the white farmers and entrepreneurs he hated with such a burning passion. The economy promptly collapsed, the notionally democratic government became a tyrannical dictatorship, and Severn Road was changed beyond all recognition. The houses were stripped of their contents as the people who lived in them sold everything they could, simply to make a few instantly worthless Malemban dollars. Then they were subdivided as rooms were rented out. Families half-a-dozen strong were crammed into bedrooms intended for a single pampered child; grand living rooms became makeshift dormitories; floorboards were lifted for firewood; crude sheets of plastic were nailed over holes in roofs whose tiles had not so long before been kept in immaculate repair.
Mary Utseya and her baby son Peter had been sharing part of the old dining room at No. 15 Severn Road with three other women and their
children for the past four months, ever since Mary’s husband Henry, a soldier in the Malemban army, was killed in action in the Congo. She had been forced to leave the married quarters where she and Henry lived. With the government in no shape to pay her a widow’s pension, Mary had no way of renting a place of her own and had counted herself fortunate that a friend had offered her a few square feet on the dining-room floor.
Within a week or two of Mary’s arrival at Severn Road there had been a presidential election. Loudspeaker vans filled with armed men had driven down the street warning the inhabitants of the terrible consequences of voting for the treacherous Popular Freedom Movement and its lying, unprincipled leader Patrick Tshonga (who was, they added, a notorious homosexual and soon to die from AIDS). Mary was not registered to vote at the nearby polling station and had no means of getting back to her old neighbourhood, so she did not vote. Had she done so, however, she would certainly have sided with the rest of Severn Road’s people, who overwhelmingly ignored the threats of Gushungo’s thugs and voted for Tshonga. They knew that they were wasting their time, since Gushungo would never accept the result. But they voted anyway.
Now, on a Friday night in May, with the ground still damp from an afternoon downpour, they were going to pay for their impudence.
The operation was carried out with a brutal ruthlessness honed by constant repetition: many, many people had already suffered the fate that awaited the people of Severn Road. The two ends of the road were blocked. Patrols were posted in neighbouring streets to catch anyone who tried to escape over back walls and garden fences. Then the military trucks arrived, one for every house. The trucks were organized in groups of four, three soldiers to a truck, each group under the command of a sergeant.