He thought back to Tungata's reaction to his mention of the three dissidents he had met in the wilderness of Chizarira. Obviously Tungata had recognized their names, and his rebuke had been too vicious to have come from a clear conscience. There was much that Craig still wanted Ilk to know, and much that Henry Pickering would "find interesting.
Craig started the VW and drove slowly back to the Monomatapa down the avenues that had been originally laid out wide enough to enable a thirty-six-ox span to make a U-Turn across them.
It was almost noon when he got back to the hotel room.
He opened the liquor cabinet and reached for the gin bottle. Then he put it back unopened and rang room service for coffee instead. His daylight drinking habits had followed him from New York, and he knew they had contributed to his lack of purpose. They would change, he decided.
He sat down at the desk at the picture window and gazed down on the billowing blue jacaranda trees in the park while he assembled his thoughts, and then picked up his pen and brought his report to Henry Pickering up to date including his impressions of Tungata's involvement with the Matabeleland dissidents and his almost guilty opposition to Craig's land-purchase application.
This led logically to his-request for financing, and he set out his figures, his assessment of Rholands" potential, and his plans for King's Lynn and Chizarira as favourably as he could. Trading on Henry Pickering's avowed interest in Zimbabwe tourism, he dwelt at length on the development of "Zambezi Waters" as a tourist attraction.
He placed the two setoof papers in separate manila envelopes, sealed thenitrid drove down to the American Embassy. He survived the scrutiny of the marine guard in his armoured cubicle, and waited while Morgan Oxford came through to identify him.
The cultural attache" was a surprise to Craig. He was in his early thirties, as Craig was, but he was built likea college athlete, his hair was cropped short, his eyes were a penetrating blue and his handshake firm, suggesting a great deal more strength than he exerted in his grip.
He led Craig through to a small back office and accepted the two unaddressed manila envelopes without comment.
"I've been asked to introduce you around," he said.
"There is a reception and cocktail hour at the French ambassador's residence this evening. A good place to begin.
Six to seven does that sound okay?" Tine."
"You staying at the Mono or Meikles?"
"Monomatapa."
"I'll pick you up at 17-45 hours." Craig noted the military expression of time, and thought wryly, "Cultural attache?" yen under the socialist Mitterrand regime, the French managed a characteristic display of 61an.
The reception was on the lawns of the ambassador's residence, with the tricolour undulating gaily on the light evening breeze and the perfume of frangipani blossom creating an illusion of coolness after the crackling heat of the day. The servants were in white ankle-length kanza with crimson fez and sash, the champagne, although non vintage was Bollinger, and the foie gras on the biscuits was from the P6rigord.
The police band under the spathodea trees at the end of the lawn played light Italian operetta with an exuberant African beat, and only the motley selection of guests distinguished the gathering from a Rhodesian governor, general garden party that Craig had attended six years previously.
The Chinese and the Koreans were the most numerous and noticeable, basking in their position of special favour WIth the government. It was they who had been most constant in aid and material support to the Shana forces during the long bush war, while the Soviets had made a rare error of judgement by courting the Matabele faction, for which the Mugabe government was now making them atone in full measure.
Every group on the lawn seemed to include the squat figures in the rumpled pyjama. suits, grinning and bobbing their long lank locks like mandarin dolls, while the Russians formed a small group on their own, and those in uniform were junior officers there was not even a colonel amongst them, Craig noted. The Russians could only move upstream from where they were now.
Morgan Oxford introduced Craig to the host and hostess. The ambassadress was at least thirty years younger than her husband. She wore a bright Pucci print with Parisian chic. Craig said, En chaW madame," and touched the back of her hand with his lips; when he straightened, she gave him a slow speculative appraisal before turning to the next guest in the reception line.
"Pickering warned me you were some kind of cocks-man," Morgan chided him gently, "but let's not have a diplomatic incident "All right, I'll settle for a glass of bubbly." Each of them armed with a champagne flute, they surveyed the lawn. The ladies from the central African republics were in national dress, a marvelous cacophony of colour like a hatching of forest butterflies, and their men carried elaborately carved walking-sticks or fly-whisks made from animal tails, and the Muslims amongst them wore embroidered pill-box fetes with the tassels denoting that they were hadji who I-ad made the pilgrimage to Mecca.
"Sleep well, Bavr'u"
"Craig thought of his grandfather, the arch-colonist. "It is best that you never lived to see this."
"We had better make your number with the Brits, seeing that's your home base," Morgan suggested, and introduced him to the British High Commissioner's wife, an iron jawed lady with a lacquered hair style modelled on Margaret Thatcher's.
"I can't say I enjoyed all that detailed violence in your book," she told him severely. "Do you think it was really necessary?" Craig kept any trace of irony out of his voice. "Africa is a violent land. He who would hide that fact from you is no true storyteller." He wasn't really in the mood for amateur literary critics, and he let his eye slide past her and rove the lawn, seeking distraction.
What he found made his heart jump against his ribs likea caged animal. From across the lawn she was watching him with green eyes from under an unbroken line of dark thick brows. She wore a cotton skirt with patch pockets that left her calves bare, open sandals that laced around her ankles and a simple T-shirt. Her thick dark hair was tied with a leather thong at the back of her neck, it was freshly washed and shiny. Although she wore no make-up, her tanned skin had the lustre of abounding health and her lips were rouged with the bright young blood beneath.
Over one shoulder was slung a Nikon FM with motor drive and both her hands were thrust into the pockets of her skirt.
She had been watching him, but the moment Craig looked directly at her, she lifted her chin in a gesture of mild disdain, held his eye for just long enough and then r turned her head unhurriedly to the man who stood beside her, listening intently to what he was saying and then showing white teeth in a small controlled laugh. The man was an African, almost certainly Mashona, for he wore the crisply starched uniform of the regular Zimbabwean army and the red staff tabs and stars of a Brigadier-General. He was as handsome as the young Harry Belafonte.
"Some have a good eye for horse flesh," Morgan said softly, mocking again. "Come along, then, I'll introduce you: Before Craig could protest, he had started across the lawn and Craig had to follow.
"General Peter Fungabera, may I introduce Mr. Craig Mellow. Mr. Mellow is the celebrated novelist."
"How do you do, Mr. Mellow. I apologize for not having read your books. I have so little time for pleasure." His English was excellent, his choice of words precise, but strongly accented.
"General Fungabera is Minister of Internal Security, Craig, "Morgan explained.
"A difficult portfolio, General." Craig shook his hand, and saw that though his eyes were penetrating and cruel as a falcon's, there was a humorous twist to his smile, and Craig was instantly attracted to him. A hard man, but a good one, he judged.
The general nodded. "But then nothing worth doing is ever easy, not even writing books. Don't you agree, Mr. Mellow?" He was quick and Craig liked him more, but his heart was still pumping and his mouth was dry so he could concentrate only a small part of his attention on the general.
"And this," said Morgan, "is Miss Sally-Anne Jay." Craig turned to face her. How long ago
since he had last done so, a month perhaps? But he found that he remembered clearly every golden fleck in her eyes and every freckle on her cheeks.
"Mr. Mellow and I ha! met though I doubt he would remember." She Turn%d back to Morgan and took his arm in a friendly, familiAr' gesture "I am so sorry I haven't seen you since I got back from the States, Morgan. Can't thank you enough for arranging the exhibition for me. I have received so many letters-2
"Oh, we've had feed-back also," Morgan told her. "All of it excellent. Can we have lunch next week? I'll show you." He turned to explain. "We sent an exhibition of Sally Anne photographs on a tour of all our African consular Pr 11[
offices. Marvellous stuff, Craig, you really must see her work." (Oh, he has." Sally-Anne smiled without warmth. "But unfortunately Mr. Mellow does not have your enthusiasm for my humble efforts." And then without giving Craig a chance to protest, she turned back to Morgan. "It's wonderful, General Fungabera has promised to accompany me on a visit to one of the rehabilitation centres, and he will allow me to do a photographic series-" With a subtle inclination of her body she effectively excluded Craig from the conversation, and left him feeling gawky and wordless on the fringe.
A light touch on his upper arm rescued him from embarrassment and General Fungabera drew him aside just far enough to ensure privacy.
"You seem to have a way of making enemies, Mr. Mellow."
"We had a misunderstanding in New York." Craig glanced sideways at Sally-Anne.
"Although I did detect a certain arctic wind blowing there, I was not referring to the charming young photographer, but to others more highly placed and in a better position to render you disservice." Now all Craig's attention focused upon Peter Fungabera as he went on softly. "Your meeting this morning with a cabinet colleague of mine was," he paused, "shall we say, unfruitful?"
"Unfruitful will do very nicely," Craig agreed.
"A great pity, Mr. Mellow. If we are to become self sufficient in our food supplies and not dependent on our racist neighbours in the south, then we need farmers with capital and determination on land that is now being abused."
"You are well informed, General, and far-seeing." Did everyone in the country already know exactly what he intended, Craig wondered?
"Thank you, Mr. Mellow. Perhaps when you are ready to iL
make your application for land-purchase, you will do me the honour of speaking to me again. A friend at court, isn't that the term? My brother-in-law is the Minister for Agriculture." When he smiled, Peter Fungabera was irresistible. "And now, Mr. Mellow, as you heard, I am going to accompany Miss Jay on a visit to certain closed areas. The inter, national press have been making a lot of play regarding them. Buchenwald, I think one of them wrote, or was it Belsen? It occurs to me that a man of your reputation might be able to set the record straight, a favour for a favour, perhaps and if you travelled in the same company as Miss Jay, then it might give you an opportunity to sort out your misunderstanding, might it not?" t was still dark and chilly when Craig parked the Volkswagen in the lot behind one of the hangars at New Sarum air force base, and, lugging his holdall, ked through the low, side-entrance into the cavernous interior.
Peter Fungabera. was there ahead of him, talking to two airforce non-commissioned officers, but the moment he saw Craig he dismissed them with a casual salute and came towards Craig, smiling.
He wore a camouflage-battle-smock and the burgundy red beret and silver lo pard head cap-badge of the Third Brigade. Apart from'a bolstered sidearm, he carried only a leather-covered swagger-stick.
"Good morning, Mr. Mellow. I admire punctuality." He glanced down at Craig's hold-all. "And the ability to travel lightly." He fell in beside Craig and they went out through the tall rolling doors onto the hardstand.
There were two elderly Canberra bombers parked before the hangar. Now the pride of the Zimbabwe airforce, they had once mercilessly blasted the guerrilla camps beyond the Zambezi. Beyond them stood a sleek little silver and blue Cessna 210, and Peter Fungabera headed towards it just as Sally-Anne appeared from under the wing. She was engrossed in her walk-around checks and Craig realized she was to be their pilot. He had expected a helicopter and a military pilot.
She was dressed in a Patagonia wind-cheater, blue jeans and soft leather mosquito boots. Her hair was covered by a silk scarf. She looked professional and competent as she made a visual check of the fuel level in the wing tanks and then jumped down to the tarmac.
"Good morning, General. Would you like to take the right-hand seat?"
"Shall we put Mr. Mellow up front? I have seen it all before." "As you wish," she nodded coolly at Craig. "Mr. Mellow," and climbed up into the cockpit. She cleared with the tower and taxied to the holding point, pulled on the hand brake and murmured, "Too much pork for good Hebrew e at ion causes trouble." As a conversational opener it took some following.
Craig was startled, but she ignored him and only when her hands began to dart over the controls setting the trim, checking masters, mags and mixture, pushing the pitch fully fine, did he understand that the phrase was her personal acronym for pre-take-off, and the mild misgivings that he had had about female pilots began to recede.
After take-off, she turned out of the circuit on a northwesterly heading and engaged the automatic pilot, opened a large-scale map on her lap and concentrated on the route. Good flying technique, Craig admitted, but not much for social intercourse.
"A beautiful machine," Craig tried. "Is it your own?"
"Permanent loan from the World Wildlife Trust," she answered, still intent on the sky directly ahead.
"What does she cruise at?"
"There is an air-speed indicator directly in front of you, Mr. Mellow," she crushed him effortlessly.
It was Peter Fungabera who leaned over the back of Craig's seat and ended the silence.
"That's the Great Dyke," he pointed out the abrupt geological formation below them. "A highly mineralized intrusion chrome, platinum, gold-" Beyond the dyke, the farming lands petered out swiftly and they were over a vast area of rugged hills and sickly green forests that stretched endlessly to a milky horizon.
"We will be landing at a secondary airstrip, just this side of the Pongola Hills. There is a mission-station there and a small settlement, but the area is very remote. Transport will meet us there but it's another two hours" drive to the camp," the general explained.
"Do you mind if we go down lower, General?" Sally Anne asked, and Peter Fungabera chuckled.
"No need to ask the "reason. Sally-Ainne is educating me in the importance of wild animals, and their conservation." Sally' Anne eased back the throttle and went down.
The heat was building up and the light aircraft began to bounce and wobble as it met the thermals coming up from the rocky hills. The area4 below them was devoid of human habitation and cultivation.
"Godforsaken hills," the general growled. "No permanent water, sour grazing and fly." However, Sally-Anne picked out a herd of big beige hump-backed eland in one of the open vleis beside a dry river-bed, and then, twenty miles further on, a solitary bull elephant.
She dropped to tree-top level, pulled on the flaps and did a series of steep slow turns around the elephant, cutting him off from the forest and holding him in the open, so he was forced to face the circling machine with ears and trunk extended.
"He's magnific end she cried, the wind from the open window buffeting them and whipping her words away. "A hundred pounds of ivory each side," and she was shooting single-handed through the open window, the motor drive on her Nikon whirring as it pumped film through the camera.
They were so low that it seemed the bull might grab a wingtip with his reaching trunk, and Craig could clearly make out the wet exudation from the glands behind his eyes. He found himself gripping the sides of his seat.
At last Sally-Anne left him, levelled her wings and climbed away. Craig slumped with relief.
"Cold feet, Mr. Mellow? Or should that be singular, foot?" "Bitch," Craig thought. "That wa
s a low hit." But she was talking to Peter Fungabera over her shoulder.
"Dead, that animal is worth ten thousand dollars, tops.
Alive, he's worth ten times that, and he'll sire a hundred bulls to replace him."
"Sally-Anne is convinced that there is a large-scale poaching ring at work in this country. She has shown me some remarkable photographs and I must say, I am beginning to share her concern."
"We have to find them and smash them, General," she insisted.
"Find them for me, Sally-Anne, and I will smash them.
You already have my word." Listening to them talking, Craig felt again an oldfashioned emotion that he had been aware of the very first time he had seen these two together. There was no missing the accord between them, and Fungabera was a dashingly handsome fellow. Now he darted a glance over his shoulder, and found the general watching him closely and speculatively, a look he covered instantly with a smile.
Wilbur Smith - B4 The Leopard Hunts In Darkness Page 9