Checking the soft ground, John saw no new footprints other than the spoor of animals, including a family of hippopotamus who spent their days in a large, sandy-bottomed pool a few hundred metres inland from the river mouth, and their nights grazing the sweet grass along the shore. He had half expected to see signs of Henning having returned but there was nothing even remotely suspicious.
Bags of sand, each weighing around two kilograms, had been stacked and labelled ready for testing. John got to work.
The sand had been thoroughly dried by Kadamanja but John emptied each bag into individual mixing bowls using his fingers to check for moisture. Satisfied that the sand was completely dry, he mixed each separate sample thoroughly, working the grains in the same manner his mother had used when she was rubbing butter into flour to make biscuit dough.
Taking the sample bottles from a cardboard box, he lined them up on the mapping table and then placed a tablespoon of sand from the first bowl into a bottle. Over this he poured carbon tetrachloride until it saturated and covered the sand. Then he corked the bottle, shook it vigorously and attached the label from its sample bag around the neck of the bottle. He did this with each different sample until he had sixteen bottles corked and labelled, their numbers corresponding with exact locations in the basin he was mapping. If John found evidence of oil, exploratory drillers would come in to do some down-hole logging, an expensive process and one which required the most accurate data possible.
Each sample needed at least twenty minutes in the liquid so John filled the time by packing equipment into the vehicle. Half an hour later, with his heart beating wildly, he was ready for the next stage. This was crunch time. If the sand contained any evidence of oil, now was the time it would be revealed. Taking a glass funnel, he folded a disc of white filter paper inside and held it over a white enamel dish. Then, picking up the first sample, he deftly flicked the cork from the bottle with his thumbnail and upturned it over the funnel. He held his breath. A brown or black ring on the filter paper would do nicely.
An explosion of pain at the back of John’s head came from nowhere. His legs buckled and he groped frantically to stop himself falling. His fingers closed around something cold and hard but it slipped from his grasp. His knees hit the ground and he toppled sideways. There was a roaring sound in his head and, even though his eyes were open, he could see nothing. Dimly, just before he slid into deep unconsciousness, John thought that what he had grabbed had felt like the barrel of a pistol.
SIX
LONDON – MAY 1983
Terence Parker-Brown eyed with distaste the shrilly ringing telephone on his desk. He was halfway through pulling on his jacket and had been about to leave the office. It had been a long day, he was tired, cranky, and had the beginnings of a tension headache. The Africa desk, his responsibility, had obligingly served up a revolution in Ethiopia, another bid for independence in Namibia, more problems in Somalia, anarchy in Uganda and post-independence violence in Zimbabwe, to name but a few. Just another day at the office.
Now, at six in the evening, he needed time to think. The soft May air outside beckoned. It held the promise of a good summer. He wanted to get out there and breathe it in. He wanted to let it flow over his tired mind until the problems of Africa were encased in a balmy English spring evening. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he thought, hating the telephone.
He was tempted to leave it ringing. What he wanted more than anything was a leisurely stroll along Victoria Embankment before catching the tube at Charing Cross Station. ‘A day at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,’ he mused, ‘is a bit like fighting the War of the Worlds every day of your life.’
Parker-Brown stared balefully at the telephone. ‘If there was ever any justice in this world, Alexander Graham Bell would never have been born,’ he thought sourly. He finished shrugging into his jacket and crossed the office to his desk, muttering aloud. ‘What is it this time? War in Angola? A coup in Tanzania? You people out there think all you have to do is press a few buttons, dump your troubles on me and then bugger off to the club for a drink. I’m the one with the ulcers. I’m the one with the sleepless nights. Oh for heaven’s sake, do stop that infernal racket.’ He snatched up the receiver.
‘Parker-Brown,’ he snapped irritably. He heard his own voice bounce back. International. Well, at least it wasn’t Susan asking him to pick up some fish for dinner.
‘Oh good, you haven’t left.’ The tinny, disconnected voice of Martin Flower came over the line. ‘We’ve had some interesting developments.’
Parker-Brown had protested the need for one of his men in Malawi. The country had no wealth, it was on the road to nowhere, internal political strife might affect a handful of British citizens, but it was nothing the High Commission staff couldn’t handle. The war raging in Mozambique was of interest, certainly, but he had several operatives in South Africa who could gather intelligence just as easily as Flower. As far as he was concerned Britain was holding Dr Banda’s hand a little too long. ‘I was on my way out,’ he informed Flower peevishly.
Martin Flower ignored the obvious pique of his boss. ‘Banda dissolved Cabinet and Parliament yesterday.’
‘We knew that,’ Parker-Brown said impatiently. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘He’s postponed the elections.’
Despite his irritation, Terence was a thorough professional with a comprehensive understanding of African politics and a nose for trouble. What was the old man up to? ‘Reason?’
‘Take your pick,’ Flower said cheerfully. ‘Officially, it’s to give candidates time to sit their English proficiency test. Unofficially, Banda has decided to take a year out. John Tembo has been named as his replacement, although he’s strenuously denying it. Forty ministers were not even nominated for re-election. Their names got as far as Banda’s desk and went straight into the circular file at his feet. There’s a lemming-like rush for the border and Lusaka is overflowing with out-of-work Malawian top brass. Rumours are flying everywhere. It’s my guess that Banda is delaying the elections until the stories stop circulating. There’s a kind of low-key hysteria over here but it’s rapidly getting out of control.’
‘African games,’ Parker-Brown growled. He’d seen this sort of thing many times before.
‘Not really,’ Martin Flower said, suddenly serious. ‘Dick Matenje and three others are dead.’
Parker-Brown’s interest quickened. ‘Tell me.’
‘Dick Matenje, Aaron Gadama . . .’
‘Who’s he?’ Terence interrupted.
‘Minister for the Central Region.’
‘Who else?’ Parker-Brown was scribbling furiously on a notepad as Flower spoke.
‘John Sangala.’
‘Health Minister. Met him once. Not a bad chap.’
‘David Chiwanga, the former legislator,’ Flower concluded.
Parker-Brown frowned at the names on his notepad. ‘What happened to them?’
‘Their bodies were discovered in a burnt-out car. It’s being reported as an accident.’ Flower paused for effect. ‘It’s the funniest damned accident I’ve ever seen.’
Parker-Brown steeled himself. Flower had a habit of leaving the worst news till last. It was the man’s one fault. ‘What’s funny about it?’
‘They all had bullet holes in them,’ Flower told him soberly.
Dick Matenje’s name jumped off the page of the notepad. The other three had probably been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Matenje? If Banda was planning a year’s sabbatical then Matenje should have been a strong contender for his replacement. Terence didn’t know much about John Tembo except that he was the Governor of the Reserve Bank and uncle of Mama Cecilia Kadzamira, President Banda’s companion and official hostess.
‘Some kind of power struggle between Matenje and Tembo?’ he asked.
‘Matenje’s been a bit of a loose cannon lately. Not toeing Banda’s line. We’ve had our eye on him for a while.’
‘No need for that now,’ Parker-Brown commen
ted sourly. ‘What else?’
‘Mama Kadzamira has her King Air tanked up and the pilot’s on twenty-four-hour standby.’
‘Prudent lady,’ Parker-Brown said. ‘Any word from SAMACO?’ The Save Malawi Committee recently formed in neighbouring Zambia had proved an invaluable source of intelligence.
‘According to them, nearly sixty army officers and at least ten politicians are dead. Banda is apparently implicated. The nickname “crocodile feeder” has been bandied about.’ Flower paused, then added darkly, ‘I suppose that’s one way of getting rid of the evidence. Matenje and the other three were found near Mwanza. SAMACO say they were trying to get into Mozambique and from there up to Zambia. The route they chose is not the usual one into Zambia. Looks like they saw this coming and fled.’
Parker-Brown agreed. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘There’s been some kind of attempted coup. We heard shots coming from the palace earlier today. We’re all standing by. The whole country is holding its breath.’
‘Can Banda hang on?’
‘Looks like it.’
Parker-Brown’s mind raced over the implications.
Banda was the devil they knew. Dick Matenje and his followers were a wild card. Right and wrong didn’t enter the equation at the moment. Order, if it was possible, had to be restored. ‘What’s the word from Sanjika palace?’
‘Deafening silence. A statement was released a while ago about the car accident. The mood is rather thundery. Questions about the shots we heard are probably not a good idea.’
‘How about British subjects?’
‘No immediate danger. All the whites have their heads well and truly down but word is they’re safe enough for the time being. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If Banda stays in control this will pass. If half of what we’re hearing is true, he’ll be ruling by fear for a good few years.’
‘Fine, Martin. Keep me posted.’
‘There’s just one more thing.’
Parker-Brown moved the receiver away from his ear and scowled at it, as if it were solely responsible for delaying his departure from the stuffy confines of his office. ‘What?’ he snapped.
‘Can someone get in touch with Bernard Pick-stone at PAGET. They’ve lost another man.’
‘Was he caught up in this?’
‘Not directly, no,’ Flower said. ‘Although he was doing a survey commissioned by Dick Matenje. He appears to have fallen foul of something quite different. Not that it matters. It stinks just as bad.’
‘Body?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are we involved?’
‘No. It’s a criminal offence, nothing political.’ Flower had regret in his voice.
Parker-Brown sympathised. In the course of their work, field operators often stumbled over criminal matters. The very nature of their work, however, required them to keep a low profile. Flower was waiting for him to say something. Parker-Brown spread balm on his conscience. ‘Then keep out of it, Martin. That’s an order.’
SEVEN
LONDON – THE PRESENT
At the age of fifty-four, Martin Flower felt like a teenager. It was many years since he had been the youngest man in the room. He looked around. They had come from all parts of Britain, from all forms of retirement – once-powerful men who had influenced the nation’s leaders. Men who, some would say, had been the true rulers of Britain. They had come at his bidding, intrigued by the brief message, ‘A matter of supreme national importance . . . a matter of utmost secrecy’. Bound, as they all were, by the Official Secrets Act, asking them here was a gamble. Crumbling old bodies, crusty old personalities, still fiercely patriotic even in their declining years, these men held in their heads so many unforgotten but unspoken secrets of the past. But would they talk to him?
His former boss, Terence Parker-Brown, long since retired, sat enveloped in an overstuffed armchair, his frail body and age-reedy voice deceptively screening a mind that was still razor sharp. At seventy-three, and fighting cancer of the bowel, Terence Parker-Brown MBE spent most days tending roses in his rambling two-acre garden in Hertfordshire, doting on an overweight and hyperactive King Charles spaniel called Muffy and, with ill-concealed bad humour, replenishing glasses at his wife’s soirees which she insisted on holding at least twice a month.
Godfrey Winterbottom, nearly blind, well into his eighties, had once controlled the Foreign and Commonwealth Office with an iron fist. ‘And he still does in a way,’ Martin thought. No-one discounted his wisdom when he cared to share it. Not that he did very often these days. A confirmed bachelor, Godfrey had fallen in love four years ago with a charming and delicate woman of similar age to himself. They spent six months each year travelling extensively. Godfrey liked to say, ‘There is so much to see and do that we’re going to have to live forever.’
Admiral Fairy Stanley used to stalk his six foot four inch frame through the halls of Admiralty House, casting a shadow with which no-one quibbled. His real name, Anthony, was not known to many. He had been nicknamed ‘Fairy Feet’ more than half a century earlier by some quartermaster joking that navy issue shoes did not usually come in size fourteen. Confined to a wheelchair now, feet hidden under a blanket, his once massive frame bowed and thin, disguising the fact that, in his youth, he had played rugby for Scotland. To get to this meeting, Fairy Stanley had to be driven down from Edinburgh, something which caused him to exclaim to Martin when he telephoned, ‘My dear chap, do you actually know where Edinburgh is?’ But he came anyway.
Sir Thomas Tomlinson, deaf when he wanted to be, had been a major player at the Home Office during Margaret Thatcher’s reign. A minor scandal involving a secretary ended his public career but, for many years after that, the Iron Lady consulted him in secret. His bellicose features had softened as age padded his face but he still resembled a belligerent bulldog with jowls which actually quivered when he spoke. His wife of fifty-six years called him ‘Pug’. No-one else dared.
Lord Rawson, ‘Banger’ to his friends for some long-forgotten bedroom indiscretion, had advised the Queen on matters of national and international importance. An extremely religious man, he had vigorously opposed the divorce of Prince Charles and Princess Diana and, making his objections loud and clear, had fallen foul of Royal favour. Not that it bothered him. He carried in his blood enough blue to make the Royals envious and was one of the richest men in England. More at home wearing plus-fours and stomping around the grouse moors of Yorkshire, Lord Rawson nonetheless had been sufficiently intrigued by Martin’s message to cut short a spot of duck shooting and make the trip to London.
Now eighty-one, he was inclined to break wind involuntarily, something he tried to cover up by coughing repeatedly, although the timing was seldom properly synchronised and he often sounded like an ailing Model-T Ford.
And finally, the enigmatic David Chisholm, ex-war correspondent for The Times who retired back in the seventies. Since then he had written several books which were considered to be definitive works on African aspects of the Second World War. Socially, he lived a high-profile life. Seen at every opening night in London, his cynical observations were devoured avidly by readers of the society columns. He was so often the first to break scandalous news that the newspapers competed fiercely to buy his pieces – as Chisholm himself once commented to an indignant society matron, ‘Your indiscretions, darling, are my champagne and caviar. Sod the bread and butter.’ Openly homosexual, he had attempted suicide twice, been thrown out of more bars than most people enter in their lives and then astounded his critics by getting a thirty-four-year-old editor pregnant and marrying her. The marriage lasted two weeks but he was now the bemused and somewhat reluctant seventy-six-year-old father of a four-year-old son.
The minds of these six men were bank vaults for government cover-ups and political connivings from the thirties through to the eighties. What lurked there was best left alone. Martin Flower knew this but had asked them to the meeting because he was desperately worried.
Observing crystal whisky glasses charged with Scotland’s finest, cigars glowing, and each man comfortably settled, Martin thanked them for coming.
‘Why here?’ Parker-Brown asked querulously. ‘Why all this secrecy, Martin?’
They were assembled in the lounge of a large penthouse apartment on the Prince of Wales Drive in London’s south-west. The apartment was owned by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and occasionally used as a safe-house. The lift stopped at the floor below the penthouse which could only be accessed by a steep flight of stairs. If other occupants of the building wondered about occasional comings and goings to and from the top floor, they were too discreet to mention it.
Admiral Stanley sniffed his whisky appreciatively. ‘Damned inconvenient,’ he growled. His driver and personal valet – he refused to call the large ex-navy engineer a chauffeur – when faced with the stairs had simply carried him to the penthouse, returning for the chair and depositing one protesting Admiral back into the only mode of transport he really trusted.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Martin smiled sympathetically. He liked Fairy Stanley and recognised the frustration caused by dependency on others.
‘C’mon, man,’ Lord Rawson snapped impatiently. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘What?’ Sir Thomas cupped his ear. ‘Speak up, damn it.’
David Chisholm leaned towards him. ‘He said twist and shout.’
Sir Thomas’s jowls quivered and runny eyes observed Chisholm with distaste. ‘No he didn’t.’
Martin Flower cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, if I may have your attention.’
Six pairs of veteran-wise eyes observed him, silence suddenly loud in the room. In their time, these men had wielded enough power to bring down a government. They knew when to speak and when to listen.
Martin spoke loudly for the benefit of Sir Thomas. ‘The FCO has been approached by one Frederick Hamilton who has made an extraordinary claim. So extraordinary in fact . . .’ Martin leaned forward in his chair, ‘. . . that I have spent the past two weeks trying to verify whether it can possibly be true.’
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